Bilbo and the Beast
by snowball247
Summary: When Frodo Baggins is thrown into Erebor's dungeons after he tries to seek refuge from an unexpected Warg attack, his uncle, Bilbo Baggins, has no other choice but to try and barter with the literally beastly King Thorin (Full summary inside). The Hobbit AU. Currently being edited.
1. Chapter I

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own 'The Hobbit' or anything related to it. Like the movies, for example. I only own the plot and various OCs I may or may not insert in the story at some point.

**FULL SUMMARY: **When Frodo Baggins is thrown into Erebor's dungeons after he tries to seek refuge after an unexpected Warg attack, his uncle, Bilbo Baggins, has no other choice but to try and barter with the literally beastly King Thorin.

In exchange for Frodo's freedom, Bilbo agrees to stay with the King and his Company forever. Slowly, despite their obvious differences, Bilbo and Thorin start to fall in love. But, with Smaug, a human who wants Bilbo for his own, and the looming deadline of an ancient curse placed upon Thorin, will they ever get together?

* * *

**CHAPTER 1:**

Frodo Baggins awoke with a start.

Outside his bedroom window, the birds chirped and twittered, completely oblivious to the horrible nightmare the teen had just escaped from. Sweat trickled down his nape and onto his back in thin, cold rivulets. His unruly black curls were plastered to his forehead, wet and sticky and just plain _gross. _Frodo rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of what he'd just seen. Unfortunately for him, it was _impossible_.

It was like the images had been permanently imprinted in his mind's eye, firmly seared into his brain with a hot iron brand.

He put a hand on his chest, right over the spot where his heart was. It was beating faster than usual, making it harder for him to breathe. He tried to remember what the town physician had said about nightmares, and did just that. Thankfully, in a minute's time, his heartbeat had slowed down and returned to normal.

Sighing, he ran a shaky hand through his curls. The nightmares _were_ becoming more infrequent, yes, but when they _did _come? Boy, were they nasty.

Last night's dream had been a whopper, even by Frodo's standards. This time, Bilbo had been with him and his parents on the stupid boat, the one that had cracked down the middle and drowned two of the people he'd loved the most. This time, Bilbo had managed to throw him to the shore, which in itself, was the first indicator that he had been dreaming.

How on earth would his sort-of frail uncle have the ability to do that?

Superpowers aside, it had still been very scary watching Bilbo thrash around in the cold lake, seeing his punches become weaker than the last. It was quite sick, seeing Bilbo try to swim towards him, but not know how to. And the worst part about that dream was that all he had done was watched.

"It was just a dream. Nothing more, nothing less," he muttered repeatedly under his breath.

He got out of bed, then. Stretching, he slipped his sandals on, donned the little bathrobe Bilbo had given him, and crossed to the little balcony his room had. When he reached it, he flung the windows wide open and stepped outside, nearly sighing in relief as the light September wind cooled him down.

Frodo sat down on the chair Bilbo had provided for him and put his chin into his hands, resting his elbows on the balcony's sill. Below him, Hobbiton was just starting to awake. And even though the name itself suggested adventure and excitement, the town was anything but: a fact that had somewhat disappointed Frodo when he'd arrived six months ago.

Sleepy shopkeepers opened up their stores, setting their wares in order. The newspaper peddler had just started his rounds a few minutes ago, calling "Papers! Papers for sale!" at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse and scratchy.

Already, gossipy women - and in some cases, men - had started to gather near the front of Mrs. Cleary's parlor, preening in the mirror and scratching away at their nails with the nail files they'd stashed in their purses, complaining about their hair-dos and ruined pedicures as if they were the most important things in the world.

Very soon, the cries of other vendors filled the air, attracting people to the various items they had on sale. Frodo scanned the busy crowd for his uncle. It was Saturday today, and as far as Saturday was concerned in the Baggins' household, it was a market day.

When his keen eyes failed to spot a certain flash of curly russet-brown, Frodo sighed, stood up, and stretched again. He still had to prepare all of the things he would need to bring to the picnic he was going to attend later, and thanks to his exhaustion from doing his homework last night, he had accomplished nothing.

Frodo tromped back into his room, grabbed the old wicker basket he would be using, and walked downstairs to the pantry. Although a few things were missing here and there, the pantry was still quite full, even by a merchant's standards, giving Frodo a wide selection as to what he and his friends would eat.

A few minutes later, just as he was finishing up, Frodo heard the front door open and close: Bilbo was home.

"Frodo? Frodo, are you awake, darling?" Bilbo called.

Frodo automatically nodded. Then he remembered that his uncle couldn't see him just yet.

"Um, yes. Yes, I'm awake. I'm in the pantry, Uncle. Just…wait a minute!"

He closed the basket, dropped it lightly onto the floor, and bounded out of the pantry, racing towards the front room, where he attacked Bilbo with a fierce three-second hug.

"Hello, love," Bilbo said, pulling Frodo back to him and giving said teenager a peck on the forehead. Out of habit, Frodo shrugged away, scrunched his nose up, and gave Bilbo his best stink-face.

After all, despite the fact that he was considered quite odd by every other kid he'd met, he was still a teenager. And teenagers hated any form of cheesy affection, comforting or not.

But, then again, Frodo would never admit that out loud.

"Uncle," Frodo whined. "I'm _thirteen._"

Bilbo raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"So? Turning thirteen doesn't necessarily mean avoiding affection like the plague, you know," he said knowingly. Frodo stuck his tongue out at him playfully, earning himself another hair-ruffle, mussing his curls up more.

"Come on. Let's get these bags into the pantry. I'm practically starved from walking around all day long. And if my memory still serves me right, you have a party to attend, don't you?"

The teen nodded and grinned, reaching eagerly for the still-wrapped packages, if only to make time run a little faster. Together, the two of them hauled all of Bilbo's purchases into the kitchen, making idle chitchat all the while about any topic he thought was important.

Finally, when his precocious nephew stopped talking, Bilbo cleared his throat and asked a question of his own. It had been bugging him ever since he'd woken up this morning and saw the calendar, and he would very much like to get it out of his system now, please.

"Frodo, by the way, dear. Er, how long is this picnic going to take?"

The teenager turned to face his uncle, biting his lip and hoisting himself up on the sink as he went. It was obvious from the way his eyebrows were furrowed that he was calculating mentally.

"I don't really know. Two, three hours? You know how Mrs. Gamgee gets whenever Sam doesn't go to bed on time. And that's definitely something that I don't want to see. You're scary enough."

Bilbo laughed, but it wasn't without his usual bite: a thing that the teenager noticed quickly. He was a smart kid, and he could sense whenever people were lying to him or not.

"Why?" he asked, hopping off the sink and walking over to Bilbo, who up until now had been restocking the teabag shelf with, well, bags of tea. "Would there be something wrong with that?"

"Well, Smaug's coming over this afternoon…"

Bilbo stopped talking when he felt his favorite nephew stiffen. He turned around, plastering a fake smile on his face.

"Hey, come on! He's not _that _bad!" he cajoled unsuccessfully.

Frodo shook his head firmly.

"Uncle, the both of us know the truth: I hate him; you hate him. There's no need to sugarcoat it." He huffed before he finished the rest of his sentence.

"Besides, he kills animals for _pleasure!_ Why, just last week, I saw him take a potshot at Farmer Maggot's cow, and just because he'd stepped in her dung a few minutes before. Also, he's vain, a pure slob, arrogant, rude, a womanizer, needs to be put in his proper place, _and_, not to mention, a _complete _shit-brained idiot!"

Frodo crossed his arms over his chest.

"Shall I go on?"

Bilbo fought the urge to smile. Instead, he fixed Frodo with an admonishing look, and simply said, "Language, young man. I won't have you saying those words under my roof."

Frodo rolled his eyes. "I said a ton of insults, and yet you chose to comment on that one. That could only mean that you agree with me, right?"

"Now, see here, young man. Mister Smaug merely wants to be friends with us. And, yes. I know that he nearly killed Brigitta last week. You told me that at least a hundred times. I also know of his…interest in me. But, the _point_ is," Bilbo stressed when he heard Frodo mutter "Interest in your _money_, you mean" under his breath, "he's the only one who's taken to us so kindly after my, and now, yours, as well, after such a short-notice move here. Besides, he's –Oh, don't you roll your eyeballs at me, Frodo Baggins!" Bilbo scolded him, despite the fact that even _he _had a hard time believing his own words.

Smaug was, indeed, not a very nice person. He used people for his own personal gain, and often liked to shove his successes into other people's faces, just as Bilbo had found out last week when the former had invited his self in for tea.

But, still, he _was_ a very attractive man. One who hundreds of village girls fawned over, thanks to his unnaturally good looks and elegant features.

"Well, it's not like _you _like him, either," Frodo said, albeit a little snappishly. Then, his face took on a worried look, blue eyes growing wide as he contemplated what he'd just blurted out. "You…_don't_, right, Uncle? Never in a million years?"

Bilbo sighed, resigned. He ran his fingers through his hair before he answered.

"Well…I mean-"

"Uncle, a simple 'yes' or 'no' would suffice. What's your answer?"

"Well, no. And-for the Valar's sake, _please _watch the earl grey!"

For Frodo, upon hearing that he and his uncle shared yet another thing in common, had begun to whoop and cheer, pumping his fist into the air like a Western Indian. Bilbo could only shake his head and look at his nephew affectionately.

"What on earth am I going to do with you?" he asked.

His question was met with a low gurgle: Frodo's stomach hadn't been filled since last night, and now, it was demanding that it be given attention.

"Er, you could feed me, for one?" Frodo said cheekily.

Bilbo laughed.

"Sure. I think we've got all the supplies we need for some pasta, and then some."

* * *

**A/N: **This story is loosely based on Disney's "**Bilbo and the Beast**". Hence, the title. Also, I personally imagine this story's version of Hobbiton as the same one in _**Beauty and the Beast. **_You know: old-fashioned two-story houses, cobblestone walkways, messy marketplace, flirty girls who fawn over a certain hunter who may or may not have a slight resemblance to Benedict Cumberbatch (a.k.a. Smaug) who is Gaston's counterpart in this fic.

Er, yeah, right.

Moving on!


	2. Chapter II

**Recap: **Frodo wakes up from yet another horrible nightmare. Bilbo comes home from shopping and asks Frodo about the picnic he's going to attend. Frodo gets angry when Bilbo tells him about Smaug coming over to their house while he's gone. Also, Smaug may or may not be not-so-discreetly courting Bilbo. The teen, however, gets cheered up when Bilbo tells him that he doesn't like Smaug at all.

* * *

**CHAPTER 2:**

"Are you sure you've got everything you might need? Extra food, water, clothes?"

Frodo bobbed his head exasperatedly. "Uncle, you've been asking me this question _repeatedly _for the past five minutes. I've even lost count! Now, please, trust me. Me and Myrtle are going to be _fine_," he said, standing up on his tiptoes a little to give Bilbo a quick goodbye kiss on the cheek.

Bilbo wrapped his arms around Frodo affectionately. In the past few months they'd spent together, the former had grown quite fond of the latter (and vice-versa), treating him as he would've treated his own son. If he'd had one.

Even though Bilbo was quite good-looking, what with his russet-brown curls and almond-shaped moss-green eyes, most of the girls in the village he'd come from and the village he was currently living in had deemed him either too old or too peculiar. And besides, he had _Smaug _to contend with, for crying out loud!

Smuag, whose blue, blue eyes could make anybody, even the males, swoon. Smaug, who had tons of muscles and trophies he'd acquired over the past few years. Smaug, who, upon arriving, had immediately been regarded as a god in their little village of sorts.

Bilbo didn't stand a chance.

Not that he even wanted to.

Despite the fact that Smaug was quite idolized in Hobbiton, rumors still floated around him. Stories of him snapping a lad's neck, just because said lad had set his eyes upon a girl that Smaug had liked at the time. But, then again, they were just that: _stories._

And yet, Bilbo hoped that somebody else would take a liking to him. Not just a man who was all brawns, but clearly no brains at all. No, Bilbo looked for something else. Somebody who was gentle, and didn't think of him or herself as above other people, just because said other people were poorer or less unfortunate in looks.

Even though he didn't want to admit it, Bilbo was starting to get a little jealous of the pretty lasses in town. Especially the ones who'd already found their 'special someone'. But, _just _a _little _bit. He still had Frodo to take care of, after all. And as far as Bilbo was concerned, the teen would _always _come first before any other silly priority he had or wanted.

"Uncle? Uncle, are you alright?"

Frodo's voice broke through his daze, the question jolting Bilbo back to where he was. Frodo was staring at him oddly.

"What?" Bilbo deadpanned. "Is there something on my face?"

Frodo shook his head. "No. It's just that…you were staring off into space. I've noticed that you only do that whenever you're thinking about something. Especially if it's important, like bills and stuff. Or, rather, like _I _did when I still couldn't stop thinking about Mum and Dad's deaths."

Bilbo blinked at his nephew, used as he was to Frodo having no trouble at all when it came to Primula and Drogo's deaths. Well, save for the recurring nightmares, but then again, who counted those, anyway?

"Uncle?" Frodo asked again. This time, he put a cautious hand on the elder man's elbow, trying to see if his uncle's skin was a little hotter than normal. Maybe this was just the effect of some fever his uncle was currently going through?

"Are you sure you're not sick? Because if you are, I could just run over to Sam's and tell him to go without me."

This time, it was Bilbo's turn to shake his head. He patted Frodo's cheek and tried for a laugh, though it came out sounding quite forced. Frodo just thought it best to ignore that, and tried to giggle along as well.

"No. I'm perfectly fine. You go on ahead with your picnic. Then, when you come home, you can tell me all about it. I'd love to hear about Merry and Pippin's shenanigans in the forest," he admonished.

Frodo's brow crinkled, but his lips were spreading into a slow grin. "How do you know that they're going to cause some kind of trouble?"

Bilbo chuckled. This time, it was a real one.

"Because, my dear Frodo, this is _Merry and Pippin _we're talking about. Surely you don't expect me to believe that they'll just sit there while Sam and Rosie make googly-eyes at each other, and you try to eat all of the sweets?"

"Meh. Fair enough," Frodo answered. His uncle knew him and his friends a little too well; there wouldn't even be a point in trying to make an argument. There just wasn't enough room.

"So…" Frodo began after a few seconds. "Should I be going now? It's almost three o'clock and I really don't want to be late."

Bilbo checked his watch promptly. He nodded.

"Yes. Yes, I think you should. Now, _please _remember-"

"'Don't eat any berries that look suspicious. Don't talk to strangers you might meet in the woods. Don't stray too far from the picnic area site. Keep in Mrs. Gamgee sight at all times. And I _do _mean _at all times_,young man. Otherwise, there'll be repercussions. Moving on, please remember to feed Myrtle at least two times. You know how she gets whenever she's hungry. And, the most important rule of all, keep to the trail's path.'"

Frodo paused triumphantly.

"Did I get everything?" he asked.

Bilbo chuckled lightly and patted Frodo on the hand with a gentle hand.

"You forgot one."

"Which is?"

"Have fun."

"Oh."

Bilbo shook his head once more. "I'm pretty sure you'll forget about all of them once you enter the forest, anyway, what with all of the good food you're going to be eating." Frodo rolled his eyes: a habit he'd seemed to have acquired from the Took side of his family.

Again, Bilbo was struck at how much he looked they looked like Primula's: small, but not too small, crystalline blue, and always seemed to have a spark of mischief in them.

Getting sentimental aside, he shook his head, grunted, and heaved Frodo onto Myrtle, the family horse's back, and patted her lightly on the rump. She whinnied once, and started to trot away from Bag End at a light pace.

"See you later, Uncle!" Frodo called out, looking back at Bilbo over his shoulder. Even from this far away, Bilbo could see the excited flush on his nephew's face. "_Please _be careful!" he shouted back. "Oh, I will!" Frodo assured him proudly, just before he passed out of Bilbo's line of sight.

And yet, there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He bit his lip and tried to ignore it. This was probably just because of the fact that he hadn't let Frodo out of his sight in the time they'd spent together. Or, at least, not until a straggler had very nearly carted Frodo off to a slave fair last June.

Remembering the memory made Bilbo's already uneasy stomach flip. And not in a good way, mind you.

"He's going to be fine, you old miser," he placated himself, blowing air out of his puffed-up cheeks. "He's going to be _just fine._"

After all, hadn't Frodo told him so? He'd done his part, too. He'd told Frodo everything there was to do and don't. He'd reminded Frodo of which berries he could or could not eat. Hell, he'd even gone to the library and spent at least an hour searching for pictures of them! Besides, Mrs. Gamgee was going to be there, and she was quite known in Hobbiton for making even the most mischievous of kids behave, even if it was only for a little while.

Frodo was going to be lovely. But, why was he feeling oh-so-nervous?

He looked up at the sky: clear, filled with sunshine, and perfectly blue, with cotton candy clouds rolling along, as if to emphasize the fact that today was going to be perfect, if only he stopped worrying so much.

He felt the breeze: cold, but just right, especially for five teenagers who would, no doubt, be perspiring heavily once they'd played their fill.

He looked around: people were going on with their lives as usual, albeit dressed a little more warmly, now that autumn had arrived, but nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The last piece of bad information he'd received was regarding the same stupid kidnapper he'd nearly murdered a few months ago.

Bilbo smiled.

He was being ridiculous. Such a fine day for doing something productive, and here he was: standing in his front yard and worrying over nothing. Nothing bad was going to happen to Frodo.

…

Right?

* * *

"I must say, this cake is _extremely _delicious, Master Baggins," Smaug said, propping his feet up on the little table Bilbo used for putting living room centerpieces on. In the process, his hunting boots hit a vase. It smashed into at least a hundred pieces on direct contact with the floor, making Bilbo grit his teeth and clamp down on his tongue.

That was the _fourth _vase Smaug had broken during his _four _visits to the Baggins household, and Bilbo was starting to feel pretty pissed off. As usual, the hunter paid no heed at all to the broken object at all. The motion only fueled Bilbo's frustration more at the man, giving him a sudden urge to throttle something with his bare hands.

Preferably Smaug's neck.

"Thank you," Bilbo answered. "It's a family recipe, you know?"

He chanced a glance at the clock; he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming and groaning out loud. It was only four-thirty. _Four-freaking-thirty. _And Frodo wouldn't be home for, what? Two, three or more hours? He felt like he was going to explode, what with the way Smaug was acting.

First, he'd shouldered his way into the house, literally knocking Bilbo into the coat rack when he'd swaggered in, dumping his crossbow and bolt pouch on the floor as he went. Never mind that they were muddy and that they'd landed on Frodo's best shoes. Nope, not at all.

Second, he'd made himself at home and walked straight into the pantry, taking all of the best bits of food to eat, and leaving only the not-so-good for Bilbo and Frodo.

Third, he'd broken a vase. It had been a family heirloom, and Bilbo was _very very _prissy when it came to important artifacts that needed to be kept whole.

Especially lovely china vases that had blue birds painted on them.

And fourth, he'd-

_Clunk!_

Bilbo was jolted out of his reverie at the sound. He looked around for the source. It was probably just a sparrow slamming into the kitchen window again. The poor dears tended to do that quite a bit, and Bilbo and Frodo had had their fair share of tending to broken wings, arduous process though it was.

Then, his eyes fell upon the table, and immediately wished that it _had _been a bird. He'd take anything now, save for the sight in front of him.

Smaug had taken his _muddy_ boots off, had plopped them onto the floor as if the soles hadn't been caked with mud, which had led to said mud splattering all over the comfy couch's lower part. Then, he'd propped his _muddy bare feet _on top of the table, getting mud all over the glass that Frodo had wiped so hard, just to make it shine.

Bilbo took deep, slow, calming breaths. He didn't lose his temper often. In fact, he was quite the forgiving fellow, easy to forget about his enemies' mistakes. But, Smaug was just…_pushing _him to his limits.

Who in the Valar's name did he even think he was?

Bilbo stood up then, trotted to the kitchen to grab the broom and dustpan, and proceeded to sweep up the shards, taking care not to step on any of them. When he was done, he disposed of the broken china and sat back down, taking extra care to pick the _farthest _seat from Smaug.

He put his hands in his lap, and started to cross and uncross them. Just to keep him busy. Otherwise, he might just do something related to murder. Preferably to Smaug, too.

The hunter, on the other hand, seemed to be quite oblivious to the red-hot waves oozing out of Bilbo, thanks to his slowly mounting temper. He ate with ease, dropping crumbs into the sofa's gaps. When he'd finished with his snack, he licked his fingers, and wiped those on the couch, too.

(Bilbo was purely pink with rage now.)

Smaug stood up, stretched his heavily-muscled arms, and took Bilbo's hands in his. It was all he could do not to shudder at the feel of Smaug's saliva against his skin.

"You know, Master Baggins, this is the day that all of your dreams come true," he began in his deep, melodic voice.

It was one that the women absolutely _loved _to hear, and one that made Bilbo's skin crawl unpleasantly.

His blue eyes were alight with something that Bilbo couldn't quite put a finger on. He took his hands out of Smaug's, and paced towards the other end of the sitting room. To his annoyance, Smaug followed. He seemed to be waiting for a response. The gears and cogs in Bilbo's brain were working overtime, just by thinking about how to kick Smaug out of his house without being too rude.

But, then again, Smaug wasn't exactly polite, was he?

Smaug cleared his throat pointedly. Bilbo turned towards him. He started to walk backwards, trying very hard not to smile. After all, the back door wasn't that far from where he was…

"Oh, um. And what do you know about _my _dreams, Master Smaug?" he asked. He had to keep the hunter talking. Otherwise, his plan would never work. So long as he was distracted, Bilbo's plan would work. And hopefully, the nasty hunter wouldn't ever bother him or his nephew again.

For a minute, his heart sped up at the thought of what he was doing.

_What if this doesn't work well? What if I only end up injuring myself? Oh, boy._

Then he remembered that Smaug wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, and his smile became just a little more confident than before.

"Plenty!" Smaug said, sweeping his arms wide, knocking a second vase off the mantle in the process. Bilbo didn't care. He was just _so _excited to kick this obnoxious prig out of his house the hard way.

"Here, picture this: a rustic hunting lodge, my latest kill roasting over the fire, and my little husband," here, he pointed at Bilbo and waggled his eyebrows, much to the latter's disgust, "massaging my feet, while the little ones play on the floor with the dogs. We'll have six or seven, you know," he finished in a pompous tone, checking his reflection out in the mirror as he spoke.

Bilbo gulped. Hard.

"Um, dogs?" he inquired, still walking backwards. "No, Bilbo! Strapping boys, like me! We'll adopt the best from some dingy orphanage somewhere, and send Frodo there in their place. Imagine that!" answered Smaug as he spread his arms widely.

Bilbo's hands unconsciously curled into fists at the remark, but he shook his sweater further down, hiding them from the hunter's view, and proceeded to give Smaug a crocodile's grin.

"And do you know who that little husband will be?" Smaug asked again.

"Um…" Bilbo flummoxed. His back hit the door he'd been looking for, making Bilbo's lips curl upwards into a grin. Smaug, on the other hand, misinterpreted the smile, and took it for something else.

"You, Bilbo!" he all but shouted with sheer delight.

He towered over Bilbo, putting his arms on either side of Bilbo's head, and planting his palms flat on the wooden door. He leaned in close, lips puckered for a kiss. It was all Bilbo could do not to vomit all over him. Or punch him. Either way was quite fine, really.

"Smaug, I'm-I'm speechless. I really don't know what to say."

Bilbo's hand travelled downwards. He found the door knob in a matter of minutes. He fiddled with it, trying to twist it around. Above him, Smaug was still trying to capture his lips in what he probably thought was going to be a sweet kiss.

"Say you'll marry me!" he declared grandly.

Bilbo smiled faux-sweetly. "I'm very sorry, Smaug…but…I just don't deserve you!"

With a hard flick of his wrist, the door opened, and Bilbo moved out of the way. Smaug leaned into thin air. He fell forwards, Bilbo discreetly tripping him with his foot. The hunter landed smack-dab in the mud pond behind Bilbo's house.

The pigs squealed, obviously annoyed at the already-cramped space's addition.

When the hunter got up on all fours, his muddy rear end sticking in the air, his face was smeared with pig dung and other various objects that Bilbo really didn't want to identify.

_Definitely _not _attractive_, Bilbo thought.

"Wait a minute," he declared, smiling cheekily at one very astonished-looking Smaug.

He all but run back to the living room, grabbed Smaug's boots with his thumb and forefinger, and proceeded to chuck them out of the back door, too.

"And please. Stay away!" Bilbo shouted, attracting the attention of a few villagers, who all laughed at the pathetic-looking hunter's current predicament. With a final glare (And Bilbo's glares were something to be scared of, indeed), he slammed the door behind him, locking it for good measure.

Mission accomplished.


	3. Chapter III

**Recap: **Frodo leaves for the picnic. Bilbo, for some unexplained reason, feels that something bad is going to happen to Frodo, but tries to ignore it, and chooses to tamp it down. Smaug arrives and, after a series of events that makes Bilbo want to kill him, proposes to Bilbo. The latter outsmarts the former, and Smaug ends up with a mouthful of pig shit.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3:**

"…two, one! Ready or not, here I come, you guys!"

Frodo stepped away from the tree he'd been leaning on. His eyes roved around the area, searching for telltale signs as to where his friends were hiding. As he did so, he looked over his shoulder, and nearly giggled out loud.

Sprawled out on the picnic blanket behind him was Mrs. Gamgee, snoring lightly, her chest falling and rising with every breath she took. Ever since she'd fallen asleep, Frodo and his friends had reveled in their newly-acquired freedom, even going so far as to play hide-n-seek in a section of the forest that they'd never been to before.

At first, all five of them had been quite wary, seeing as how they were afraid of being lost and never making out. But the sunshine had been so warm-looking as it had filtered through the crunchy leaves, and the nooks and crannies inside the place had been so _perfect_ for hiding that all fear had immediately fled their little bodies.

"Rosie? Sam? Merry? Pippin? Where are you?" he called, even though he knew very well that none of them would answer. Like him, all four were hell-bent on winning the game, despite the fact that none of them were really kids anymore (Frodo, Sam, and Rosie were 13. Merry was 15, therefore making him the eldest, and Pippin was only 12).

He took a step forward.

Frodo winced as a branch snapped underneath his right foot.

Sneakiness had never been his forte. Insulting Smaug was. And speaking of the idiot, Frodo wondered whether or not he was currently at home, eating every morsel of food in sight, and annoying the living daylights out of his beloved Uncle Bilbo.

Unconsciously, his fingers curled themselves into fists.

Frodo's pale knuckles turned red with a sudden blood blush. Just _thinking_ about the moronic hunter made his blood boil. He'd always been mean to Frodo and his friends. Not to mention, Myrtle the horse. Frodo had seen him pat her none-too-lightly on the rump with the butt of his gun just last week, and had denied it to Bilbo's face when Frodo had told on him.

He smirked quietly as he remembered Bilbo telling him that he wasn't to have any dessert for the week, but winked at him at stuck his tongue out at Smaug when the hunter's back was turned.

Frodo always got back at him, though, by sneaking worms and other unsavory stuff into his tea whenever Smaug's attention was focused on something else. And if Bilbo even noticed it at all, he'd never said anything about it. Not even once.

So, Frodo just took that as a good sign.

_Snap!_

The teenager whirled around, sapphire-blue orbs skimming the perimeter. His face split into a wide grin when he saw a flicker of…well…_something _by the trail end. This particular trail end, however, led into the deeper parts of Fangorn Forest, where Beasts and Wild Things roamed freely.

But, of course, Frodo didn't know about that.

He was only thirteen, after all, and a newcomer, at that.

Frodo approached the place slowly, trying to keep his giggle reined in. Frodo squinted as the sun broke through the clouds for a minute, making the same spot glint brightly again. He was certain now that it was either Merry or Pippin, the both of which had curly blonde hair that almost looked golden whenever the sunlight caught their curls at a certain angle.

But, as Frodo drew nearer, keen as he was on finding at least two of his friends, his normally attentive eyes missed quite a few things: the long claw-like furrow marks scratched deeply into the ground, the crude paw prints that looked as if they'd been stamped into the soil, and most importantly, the little specks of dried blood that dotted the forest's trail.

Unable to contain his excitement, Frodo clapped his hands together, and giggled like a school boy. This was _so _unlike him, so out of character, but he just couldn't help it. The weather was perfect, there was a possibility that he would win the game, and his uncle hated Smaug.

What could _possibly_ go wrong?

So, just imagine the look on Frodo's face when what he saw weren't his friends, but a pack of fully-grown Gundabad Wargs, maws bloody and splattered all over with gore. They were too fixated on their latest kills – five bucks – that they failed to notice the teen, but Frodo knew that if he didn't move, they eventually would.

He took a step backwards. He knew that he had to warn the others. The horses they'd ridden were swift, and could most probably outrun anybody they chose, but Wargs?

Well.

Everybody very well knew that they were _much, much_ faster.

_Have to move. Have to warn the others. Have to move. Have to warn the others. Have to-Shit!_

Frodo cursed mentally as the twig crunched underneath his foot. Of all the times, for heaven's sake! The Wargs stopped chewing, their ears and noses prickling. Although he was already a fair distance away, Frodo's heartbeat quickened.

He knew that Wargs had sharp senses. And these ones were no exceptions.

Abandoning all thought of precaution, Frodo turned and ran, pressing his lips together in a hard, thin line to keep the blood-curdling scream he wanted to release from spilling out. Behind him, he heard one of the Wargs growl and the sound of velvety paws beating against soil.

Frodo's speed increased.

He wanted-no, _needed_- to reach the others in time, needed to warn them. After all, there wasn't no use in letting all of them be torn to kibble, now was there?

So, with a final burst of exertion, Frodo pumped his little legs harder. He wasn't the fastest runner at school for nothing, after all.

He burst into the clearing with inhuman speed, his head turning left and right as he searched for his friends. With massive relief, he saw that they'd come out of their hiding places while he'd wandered off.

_It's a good thing I've got impatient friends, _he thought distractedly.

Said friends were now bunched around Mrs. Gamgee, and all four of them seemed to be doodling something on her face. The teen was too panicked to care. Merry, who just so happened to be staring over his shoulder, caught sight of Frodo, flashed him a slightly gap-toothed grin, and waved him over.

"Hey! There you are. Come on! Before she wakes up," he said, giggling. Frodo shook his head, trying his best to catch his breath.

"No-stop-Wargs-behind" was all he managed to say. He was starting to get pissed off. Didn't Merry see the danger all of them were about to be in? Didn't _anybody _see just how much their lives were in peril?

"Merry," said Rosie Cotton, the purple marker she'd been using dangling lightly from her hand. "I think he's trying to say something. Now, come on, Frodo. Deep breathing's the key. That's it. In. Out. In. Out."

When Frodo finally caught his breath, she smiled at him. "Now, what was it you were trying to say?"

By this time, the other three had stopped their mischief as well, walking over to Frodo and Rosie with cautious expressions on their faces. Sam eyed Rosie's hand on his back a little too warily for Frodo's taste, but he let it go. Right now, there was something more pressing that he needed to attend to.

"What I was saying was that-"

He was cut off by a sudden howl. It wasn't that near, but near enough to make them freeze and their blood run cold. Pippin's eyes widened, the glassy green orbs reflecting the light.

"What the heck was that?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Wargs. Loads of them. We have to get away from here," Frodo answered in the same quiet tone. It was as if everybody suddenly felt the need to whisper, what with the pressure of something carnivorous lurking in the shadows.

Rosie nodded and ran over to Mrs. Gamgee, shaking the old lady awake.

"Mrs. Gamgee? Mrs. Gamgee, we've got to go! There're Wargs nearby!" the thirteen-year-old said, trying to keep her voice as steady and calming as possible for Sam's grandmother's sake.

"Poppycock, dear. Wargs in this part of the forest? Impossible," she mumbled, half-awake, rolling over on her side. As if on cue, another howl resonated through the air, sending more chills running down the teenagers' spines. At the sound, Mrs. Gamgee snapped up. She was much alerter now, her eyes turning steely gray and her expression shifting into that of the one she wore whenever Sam misbehaved.

"Right. Right, then. Rosie, get onto the cart, dear. Merry and Pippin, would the both of you ever be so kind to pack up our things? Sam, get the horses. Frodo, darling, please step away from the trees," she said in a firm but commandeering tone.

The teens did as they were told.

Rosie clambered atop the cart, wrapping her scarf around her neck as tight as it would go. Merry and Pippin scurried about the camp site, picking this and that up and stuffing all of it into the wicker baskets. Sam disappeared into the trees, only to reappear a few minutes later holding three reins.

He handed Myrtle's to Frodo, Salt and Pepper's to his grandmother, and hopped on top of the cart himself.

"They're getting closer!" Pippin said, albeit a little hysterically. He had been watching the scene behind Frodo's back unfold with a pair of binoculars he'd brought with him, and all he could see now were snapping jaws and sharp fangs.

"Not helping, you idiot!" Rosie shrieked. Her curls bounced on her shoulders as she motioned at Merry to hurry up and load the baskets beside her. Frodo jumped on top of Myrtle, nearly falling off the other side as the skittish horse threatened to throw him off.

"Woah, girl! Steady, steady," Frodo muttered, patting her side lightly. He turned to Mrs. Gamgee, who was now in the cart's driver's seat, trying her best to calm her own pair of frightened beasts.

"D'you think we could outrun them, Mrs. Gamgee?" Frodo asked. "I don't know," she replied. But, there was something in her tone that made Frodo think that they _couldn't._

Unless…Unless…

He took a deep breath, his throat constricting as he made his mind up.

"You go on ahead, ma'am. I'll distract them," he decided.

The elderly woman's eyes widened.

"No! No! Not a chance, young man! Come on, Frodo! Lead the way, we'll follow," she said. Frodo shook his head stubbornly, sending raven curls flying everywhere. "No. It's no use if none of us make it out here alive. I'll be careful, I promise! And if Uncle asks where I am, just tell him that I got…held up," he instructed.

Mrs. Gamgee to reason some more with him, but Frodo's mind was made up. He'd just have to work out the kinks in his plan as he went along.

"_Please _be careful," she pleaded, resigned.

Frodo nodded and smiled, trying his best to reassure her. He looked over his shoulder. The Wargs were closing in. And soon, the cart wouldn't have anywhere to go. His eyes darted back once more to where Mrs. Gamgee and the cart stood, and said a single word, "Go."

Then, he turned Myrtle around, and blew the air out of his cheeks.

"Oi! Oi, you bloody bastards! Yeah, you, you ugly moron. Come here. Come and get me, you fat slowpokes!"

He darted off into the trees, completely determined to let the Wargs catch his scent.

And, unfortunately for poor Frodo, they did.


	4. Chapter IV

**Recap**: Frodo and his friends go for a picnic in the woods. While playing hide-n-seek, wherein Frodo is the seeker, he stumbles upon a pack of giant Gundabad Wargs. While walking away from them, he accidentally snaps a branch, and makes them chase after him. He warns the others in time, and decides to stay behind to draw the Wargs away from their scent.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**:

Six o'clock came and went, and yet, Frodo still hadn't arrived.

Bilbo paced up and down his living room, his lip all but gnawed off from biting it so much. What was taking them so long? Surely the woods would be too dark for them to see now? He ran a hand through his copper curls, trying hard not to think about the worst circumstances possible. After all, there was no use in that. It'd only increase his chances of having a heart attack. Or worse.

Finally, after another hour of pacing and worrying, he grabbed his coat, and headed over to the Gamgees.

_Maybe Frodo decided to play with Sam some more at their house. Yes, yes, that's it_, he thought.

The walk seemed to take hours to Bilbo. Everybody stared at him as he passed, what with the way his hair stuck up in odd little tufts, and his lower lip bleeding. To the outside eye, he looked as if he'd just come from a fight. When he reached his destination, he hammered on the door, polite entrances and all that be damned. His nephew was missing, for the Valar's sake!

He waited impatiently for the door to open. When it finally did, Bilbo pushed the door open, nearly hitting a bewildered Sam in the face. "Er, sorry, Sam. Is Frodo here?" he asked. At the question, Sam's already-pale face drained of all color. "H-H-He left a f-f-few minutes a-a-ago, sir," Sam spluttered out. His eyes were wide, and he looked close to tears.

Bilbo sighed wearily. This wasn't going to get them anywhere. He put his face in the easiest smile he could muster, put his hands on Sam's chubby cheeks, and looked the boy in the eyes, as if the answer as to where Frodo was would be found in the younger one's glassy hazel orbs.

"Please, Sam. Just _tell _me. I won't get mad, I promise," Bilbo said in a soothing tone. If anything, that only made matters worse. "Can't tell you. Can't tell you," was all he got out of Sam before the little boy started to bawl, tears streaming down his face. Bilbo bit his lip. This was what he'd been trying to avoid ever since Frodo had arrived: a temper tantrum.

"Oh, oh, Sam! Hush, little one. Er, it'll be alright. I'm sorry. I'm-"

"Sam? Who're you talking with? Are you crying?"

Bilbo froze. Mrs. Gamgee was extremely protective of Sam, and if she saw him crying, Bilbo would probably leave with a nice-sized dent on the top of his head.

"Sam-Oh!_ Oh_!" Mrs. Gamgee said, appearing in the main room doorway. The plate she was drying flopped from her hands and onto the floor, smashing into a thousand pieces. Bilbo gently pushed Sam aside, shut the door, and walked determinedly towards Mrs. Gamgee. The old woman seemed to progressively shrink as he approached, shriveling in on herself to avoid any unwanted confrontation.

"Mrs. Gamgee, _please_. Just tell me where my nephew is," Bilbo pleaded. "Don't know. Don't know," Mrs. Gamgee stammered. She twisted the dishrag she was holding sharply. She started to back away from Bilbo, her blue eyes wide with fear. "I won't hurt you, Ma'am. Please, just _tell _me!" Bilbo's voice was getting louder now. And so were Sam's cries. Surely they were starting to attract attention? But, at that moment, Bilbo didn't care. All he wanted was to find Frodo, bring him home, and keep him there.

When Mrs. Gamgee didn't answer, Bilbo ran his fingers through his curly hair once more, barely suppressing the scream of outrage he wanted to release.

Why wouldn't they just tell him?

It wasn't like Frodo was about to die. Or was he?

"I just need an answer. Please," he said to nobody in particular.

Suddenly, as if some god heard his plea, a familiar horse nickered outside. Bilbo felt his spirits rise. "Myrtle!" he cried, dashing for the door.

Oh, he was going to _murder _Frodo!

"Fro-" Bilbo began. He stopped when he saw that the familiar chestnut-brown horse bore no rider, her saddle empty. Myrtle's sides were bleeding with scratches, and the poor animal looked like she wanted to pass out from exhaustion. "Myrtle," Bilbo said, his voice soft. He stepped forward, hands outstretched. The horse moved right into him, nuzzling her nose into his palms. "Where's Frodo?" he asked again. As expected, the horse gave no reply.

At once, Bilbo knew what he had to do.

"Myrtle, take me to...wherever you left Frodo." At his words, the horse nickered once more. "No, no, Myrtle, stop! Please! We need to save Frodo from...whatever the both of you were running from," Bilbo soothed. The horse stopped rearing, calming a bit. "Please," Bilbo intoned. When Myrtle finally stopped moving around, Bilbo clambered atop him, steering the horse in the forest's general direction.

He'd sworn on Drogo and Primula's graves that Frodo would always be safe in his company. And he wasn't going to break that promise now.

* * *

Frodo was, even though he absolutely _hated _to admit it, hopelessly and unbelievably lost.

Myrtle had thrown him off her back an hour ago, and the Wargs had gone after her instead of him. So, dazed and wary, the teen had stumbled blindly through the forest, not even minding whether or not where he was going. And now, his unthinking decision had paid off: he hadn't a clue as to where he was, let alone what time it was.

"Oh, Uncle Bilbo's going to be so mad," he whispered. A chilly breeze blew through the woods, making the leaves on the trees rustle. Slivers of moonlight dotted the ground. But, even Frodo's unusually sharp eyes failed to see a path leading out of the leafy maze.

_Achoo!_

Frodo rubbed his nose. He'd started to sneeze about thirty minutes ago, and he was already starting to feel cold. He reached behind him to adjust his cloak, but stopped when he remembered that one of the Wargs had clomped it off his back while they were on his heels. He hugged himself, searching for a suitable tree to spend the night in. He'd just solve this problem tomorrow when he'd had enough rest.

_Boom!_

The teen jumped as a thunderclap exploded above his head. It seemed to rattle him to the core, shaking his inner organs into new positions. He looked around frantically, trying to see if there were any cottages nearby. At the fifth flash of lightning, Frodo's heart all but leaped out of his chest: there was a castle up ahead. And if he was lucky, the owners just might be kind enough to let him stay the night.

With that in mind, Frodo tore towards the structure, not knowing what exactly lay inside.


	5. Chapter V

**Recap**:A worried Bilbo walks over to Mrs. Gamgee's house. He wants to know where his missing nephew, Frodo, is. He gets his answer in the form of Myrtle, the family pony, arriving; she's bruised all over. He gets her to take him to wherever she left Frodo. Said nephew, on the other hand, is sick. Frodo finds a castle and decides to take refuge in it for the night.

* * *

**CHAPTER 5:**

By the time he arrived at the front gate, Frodo was sopping wet. His black curls were plastered to his forehead, just like they had been earlier when he'd awoken from his nightmare. He tried to call out, but the rain was just too loud. Or was it hail? Well, if it wasn't, it sure felt like it!

He shrugged his shirt up a little higher to cover his exposed nape, and experimentally pushed at the massive gold and black gates towering in front of him. To his surprise, they opened at his touch, and swung open. It was almost as if they were welcoming him. But, that was impossible. After all, they were inanimate and didn't have minds of their own. Or did they?

Frodo shook his head. This was probably just the cold and the fatigue getting to him. Of course gates didn't open on their own accord. They had probably been left open just for this exact purpose. Another clap of thunder overhead brought Frodo back to Earth.

"Right," he muttered. He stepped through the gates, and closed it behind him. He then ran up the gravel path leading to the castle's main doors. He half-expected it to be closed, but just like the gates, they were open as well. He poked his head through and cleared his throat.

"Hello?" he called.

Nobody answered.

His voice was croaky and hoarse. He hoped his hosts would give him at least a mug of tea before they shooed him off for tresspassing. Only the Valar knew how much he needed one. Frodo sneezed again. He was starting to feel feverish; his temperature was proof enough that he was definitely coming down with something. He stepped inside the castle, closing the door behind him.

"Hello?" he tried again. "Is there anybody home?"

"Why, yes, there is!" a voice called back. Frodo whirled around. The motion left him dizzy and weak. He clutched onto a nearby table for support. "W-W-Who said that?" he asked. Tiny stars had began to dance into his line of vision. Did the world always spin this fast? Or was it just his imagination playing tricks on his mind again?

"Me!"

Frodo nearly knocked the porcelain vase sitting atop the table off it's perch, surprised as he was at the teen who'd suddenly jumped out at him from the darkness. Or rather, _teens_. There were two of them. They seemed to be older than Frodo by a couple of years. Frodo guessed they were related, what with the same way they held themselves and the stubborn set of their jaws.

"Who are you?" the elder-looking one asked. He had crinkly cerulean eyes, dimples, and long sandy-blonde hair. Even though he was smiling, Frodo noticed that he was regarding Frodo's hands most carefully. "I'm not a thief," Frodo blurted out without thinking. "No, no. 'Course not," the blonde said. But his eyes flitted from Frodo's hands to his face after that.

"What's your name? Where do you come from? And how did you come by our Uncle's castle?" the other asked. He stepped forward and cocked his head to the side. He had darker hair than his sibling, hazel-green eyes framed by curly eyelashes, and a mischievous grin. Frodo wondered whether, under different circumstances, they would've gotten along rather well.

"Easy, brother. He looks rather ill. Come on, you can answer my brother in the living room," the blonde said. He hooked one arm under Frodo's armpit and helped him walk. As they half-dragged, half-carried Frodo to the living room, the brothers introduced themselves.

"I'm Fili," the sandy-haired one said. "My brother's name is Kili." He bobbed his head in Kili's direction for emphasis. When they'd seated Frodo in a comfy armchair, they turned to him expectantly. "So, we've said our names. What about yours?" Fili asked.

"Frodo. Frodo Baggins," he answered. Fili's eyebrow wrinkled. "You sound sick. Are you sick?" he inquired. Frodo shook his head. Once again, the motion sent the room spinning. "No," he said. Right after the words were out of his mouth, he sneezed, spewing snot all over Kili. "Oh, sorry!" Frodo apologized. "I just sneezed all over you! A prince, at that!"

Kili laughed and said, "What makes you think I'm a prince?" The younger teen shrugged. "Well, your garments are fancy. You're wearing a sword. And there's this regal air around you. Or is it just the flu getting to me?" Fili put a hand to Frodo's forehead and grimaced.

"Aye. You do have the flu. But, yes. You're correct. Me and my brother are princes. And princes must always be courteous to their visitors, unexpected or not."

He stood up and clapped his hands. Kili, on the other hand, put a thick blanket around Frodo's shivering shoulders.

"Have you been playing in the rain? And where do you live?"

In response, Frodo merely shrugged. He was far too nauseous to reply. Kili tucked the blanket underneath Frodo's chin and ruffled his black curls, offering him a friendly smile. "Don't worry. Dori makes an excellent tea. We'll have you warmed up in no time, little one," he said. Without another word, he turned to his brother and started to confer with him. Dazed as he was, Frodo still had enough strength to eavesdrop. The pair, as he quickly inferred, seemed to be arguing.

"What're we going to do about him? If Uncle finds out-"

"Uncle _won't _find out. He's up in the West Wing. Like he's been for the past few weeks."

"Should we tell him about the c-"

"Kili, shush! The boy might hear!"

They broke apart at that, Frodo slumping lazily into his chair at once to prove that he hadn't been listening. He simply stared at the fire, his eyelids drooping lower and lower as the seconds ticked by. He was just about to nod off when suddenly, the door to the living room banged open. He shot out of the cozy chair, the blanket pooling at his feet. As if on cue, the roaring flames behind him spluttered out, and he was drenched in darkness.

Kili and Fili were nowhere to be found, and a bone-cold wind was fluttering in through the open door.

"Fili? Kili? Are you there?" he croaked. His throat had gone from bad to worse. It physically hurt for him to speak now, seeing as it felt like somebody was jabbing hundreds of needles in his esophagus whenever he did just that. His head was spinning from his sudden movements, forcing him to grip the chair's arm. Bile rose up in his throat, but he forced it down. It wouldn't be polite to vomit all over the carpet, seeing as they had been so nice to him.

"WHO ARE YOU?" a voice shouted. Frodo squeaked and took a step backwards. He was so dizzy that he fell to the floor, his palms slapping the cold marble on contact. "F-F-Frodo B-B-Baggins, sir," he stammered out. For a brief moment, he wondered whether Fili or Kili and sold him out. After all, he'd heard them talking about an Uncle. What if this was him, and he simply hated unannounced visitors?

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" the same voice asked.

"I-I-I was lost in the woods, a-a-and I-" Frodo spluttered out, only to be interrupted by a feral roar. Even though he didn't want to believe it, the teen slowly came to terms that the roars were coming from the _person_.

_He's not human! He's not human! _Frodo thought frantically.

He scrambled backwards until his head hit the fireplace. Soot came crashing down on him, getting into his eyes, making them sting.

"YOU'RE NOT WELCOME HERE!"

Frodo yelped and scrunched his nose, trying his best not let any of his tears leak out. He didn't want to cry. Not here, with this...this... _monster_ bearing down on him. "I-I-I'm sorry!" he squeaked out. At his reply, the monster stepped backwards, giving Frodo a better view of him. He nearly squealed in terror at what his eyes saw.

Fili and Kili's 'Uncle' had curly bull-like horns, shaggy fur covering his entire body, claws and paws for hands and feet, and sharp fangs that seemed to be stained with blood. He was wearing nothing but a pair of ripped blue-black trousers and a purple cape that fluttered in the wind whenever he moved. He looked like...like...like...a _beast_.

"WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?" the Beast inquired. Frodo shook his head meekly. "N-N-Nothing. Sir," he added after a moment's thought. "SO, YOU'VE COME TO STARE AT THE BEAST, HAVEN'T YOU?" the Beast asked again. Flecks of spit flew out of his mouth as he spoke, landing on the carpet like glistening rain drops. Frodo wondered for a fleeting moment whether or not Fili and Kili had sold him out. But, he remembered the way they'd cared for him, even if it was rather short.

No.

He decided the brothers were way too gentle to subject him to death via their Uncle's hands. He'd seen kindness in their eyes and heard the worry in their tones as they fussed over him.

"Please, sir, I meant no harm. I've just been running from a pack of Wargs, and all I needed was a place to stay!" Frodo said. Something hot ran down his cheek: a tear. He was crying, whether from the fear or the fact that everything was spinning, he didn't know. All he wanted was to see his Uncle Bilbo and get away from this place. Preferably forever.

"_I'll _give you a place to stay," the Beast sneered. Without another word, he strode forward, and picked Frodo up by the scruff of his shirt. The teen flailed, but the monster was obviously stronger. As he squirmed, he caught sight of Kili and Fili cowering in a corner, their expressions apologetic.

_We're _so _sorry_, Fili mouthed. Kili nodded, his mouth turned down at the corners.

Before he could reply, the Beast hauled him out of the room, and down a long flight of stairs. His grip on Frodo's shirt never faltered once. When Frodo realized were they were headed (the dungeons), he started to squirm again.

"BE STILL OR I'LL DROP YOU!" the Beast ordered. Frodo stopped wriggling at once.

Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs. It was much more drafty down here, and Frodo, who was still half-soaked, shivered violently. The Beast paid him no heed. Instead, he marched through a huge oak door and into a corridor that was purely lit by torches. The odd thing was, the flames down here were colored green and blue. Not the typical red and orange Frodo had grown accustomed to.

This was a very strange place, indeed.

The Beast stopped in front of a cell, opened the door, and threw Frodo in. He rolled until his back hit the cold stone, and he shuddered once more.

"ROT HERE!" the Beast screamed, followed by a gut-wrenching growl. He slammed the cage shut, the sound echoing off the walls. He took one last look at Frodo, swished his cape, and was gone. Once he heard the dungeon door slam once more, Frodo put his head on his arm, and started to cry.

This wasn't good.

This wasn't good _at all._

* * *

**A/N: **Massive thank you to everybody who's read/commented/followed/favorited this story! And, special shout-out to: **Kurai01**, **EnixSkye**, **KateT **(anonymous reviewer), and **Les FrouFrous** for taking the time to comment on the story. Your words of encouragement are very much appreciated!

Hugs and Kisses,

**snowball247!**


	6. Chapter VI

**Recap**: An extremely sick Frodo enters Erebor Castle and is welcomed by the owner's nephews, Fili and Kili. They usher him into the living room, and begin to argue regarding their mysterious 'Uncle'. Frodo meets him earlier and is shocked to discover that he is, in fact, a beast.

* * *

**CHAPTER 6:**

"Myrtle, stop! Stop!"

Bilbo tugged on the horse's reins and hopped off. There, lying on the ground, all torn and muddy, was Frodo's favorite cloak. He stared at it for a minute, as if he expected his nephew to vaporize out of thin air, just by doing so. The garment still had Frodo's scent on it, and Bilbo inhaled deeply, trying to trick his mind into thinking that Frodo was here, so as to avoid having _another _bloody breakdown.

He'd already had one on the way here, and he didn't want a repeat of that. No, he needed to be as level-headed as possible if he wanted this little search of his to bowl over before the clock struck midnight. And that was only going to happen if he stayed placid. He took a deep breath, inhaling nasally and exhaling through his mouth. Behind him, Myrtle whinnied impatiently. He ignored her for a few more seconds before he stood and trotted back to her.

As if she'd recognized the cloak, Myrtle nudged it with her nose. She neighed, as if to say, _Is it his? _

Bilbo nodded.

"It's his, girl. Come on. His scent's still fresh. He might be nearby. Frodo would never have dropped this unless he was sending anybody who cared to look a message. Come on, that's it."

With a grunt, he heaved himself onto Myrtle's back, clutching the cloak so tightly, his knuckles turned white. His spirits were slowly but surely rising. He had a lead now, after all. All he had to do now was find Frodo and take him back home.

No biggie.

* * *

Myrtle saw the castle before he did.

The horse nickered nervously, threatening to throw Bilbo off her back. He patted her sides comfortingly and steered her towards the gates. As she walked, Bilbo's mind reeled with all sorts of questions, ranging from _What if Frodo took refuge in here? _to _Who-or _what- _exactly lives here? _He gulped as he pushed Myrtle through the half-open gates, snagging his coat a little on the latch.

He shivered as his eyes took in the castle's exterior design: it was dark, gloomy, and seemed to have been painted in about fifty shades of gray and black. The plants in the gardens were long and untrimmed, the stone gargoyles chipped and decaying. It didn't make them any less scarier, though. To Bilbo, it seemed as if their unseeing stone eyes were watching him, their forked tongues laughing at him for entering a castle that wasn't his.

As if to add to his misery, it started to drizzle once more, pelting the both of them with hard, cold drops. He shrugged his coat up so as to cover his head, but it was useless. The coat was just as drenched anyway. Sighing, he ditched his efforts of trying to stay dry, and spurred Myrtle forward, digging his heels into her sides a little more harder than usual.

The horse didn't seem to mind, though.

She was just as eager to get into a place of shelter, just like him.

Once they reached the front doors, he hopped off Myrtle once more, and led her to a nearby shed. He tied her reins to a post, and trudged off towards the doors, clutching Frodo's muddy cloak in his hand. Just like his nephew had found out a few hours prior, the front doors were unlocked. But, of course, Bilbo didn't know this. He merely assumed that one of the maids had forgotten to lock them the night before.

"Hello? Anybody home?" he called.

No response.

He stepped inside the cavernous hallway, shivering as a puff of air fanned onto him as he closed the doors. His eyes took in his surroundings, trying to spot a sign that anybody lived here at all. Well, there were voices emanating from the room coming down the corridor, for one. And the furniture wasn't _that _dusty. So, there probably was. He took a deep breath and decided to start with the room at the end of the hallway.

If Frodo was in there, surely their hosts would understand if he'd entered without so much as an invitation. And the front doors were open, after all.

As usual, his feet barely made any sound at all. It was a trait that Bilbo had inherited from his family, and he was pleased that his skill finally had some use. As he neared the door, the voices began to become much more clearer, the words coming apart and forming sentences. Judging from what he'd heard so far, there were only two people in the room. Teenagers, at that. Probably around fourteen to nineteen years old. They seemed to be arguing.

"...don't care! Let's get him out before Uncle comes back down!"

A chill ran down Bilbo's spine. Get _who _out?

"Kili, no! We've went over this a hundred times! Uncle will most certainly find out. He's not as stupid as you think he is, you know!" the second voice said.

Bilbo peeped through the little crack the open door provided. What he saw were two young boys on their feet, gesturing wildly with their hands as they spoke, firelight dancing off their youthful faces. They were handsome in a princely way, and the both of them had long, floppy hair.

"I didn't say he was stupid," the younger-looking, black-haired one countered. "All I'm saying is that we have to get Frodo out of- _AAAH!_"

Kili yelled as Bilbo banged the door open, and flew at him, knocking the young prince to the ground. He sat down Kili's stomach, ignoring his outburst of pain, and gripped him by the scruff of his shirt, bringing their faces far too close together.

"Hey, get off my brother!" Fili yelled. He pulled Bilbo off, only to incur the elder man's anger himself. He took hold of Fili's shirt, too, and began to shake him. Kili, on the other hand,was far too dazed to do anything. "Where's my nephew? Where is Frodo?" Bilbo asked. "I-I-I'll only answer you i-i-if you s-s-stop shaking me!" Fili demanded. Even though he was slowly starting to get dizzy from all of the shaking, his voice was steady and didn't show the slightest hint of a quiver.

Bilbo seemed to come back to his wits at that, and let go of the elder prince's shirt. He stumbled backwards, only to be caught by a much steadier Kili's hands.

"Easy, easy, sir. Come on, take a seat."

He led Bilbo to the nearest armchair, pushed a hot mug of tea into his hands, and drew up two stools, one for him and the other for his brother. When the both of them had settled in comfortably enough, and Bilbo was halfway through his cup, they began to question him. Mostly about the reason he'd suddenly barged in and decided to tackle them to the floor.

"I-I-I'm so sorry. For attacking the both of you like that. It's just that, Frodo's all I have now and-"

To his and the now-serious pair's surprise, hot tears began to stream down his face. He'd finally broken down. Bilbo dabbed meticulously at his cheeks, sniffling audibly. Kili and Fili looked at each other uncomfortably, since they had pretty much been the reason why aforementioned nephew was now resting in the dungeons below.

"I'm sorry. Again." A hysterical laugh bubbled from Bilbo's lips. "I don't break down and blubber this often. I'm actually quite controlled when it comes to what I feel, especially Frodo needs me to be strong now, considering the fact that Primula and Drogo-"

"Who're they?" Fili interrupted.

"His parents. They died a few months ago in a freak boat accident. Split right in half. Only my poor boy knew how to swim."

Both boys bit their lips. It was a habit that they'd acquired from their Uncle whenever he was pondering hard over something.

"We could take you to him," said Kili at last, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over them like a thick blanket.

At those six words, Bilbo's moss-green orbs lit up, his lips curling upwards into a grin. Fili decided that he looked much more better with a smile on his face, no matter how small and insane-looking.

"Really? Where is he?"

The elder man leaped up at once, accidentally smashing the mug on the floor. "Oh, sorry. For the third time," he mumbled. Fili and Kili did the same, the latter waving an airy hand. "No worries, Mister-?"

It was only at this point that they thought to exchange casualties.

"Baggins. Bilbo Baggins."

Fili smiled. "My name is Fili Oakenshield. This is my brother, Kili. At your service." They bowed after speaking and, for some odd reason, Bilbo found another grin creeping onto his face. Probably because they reminded him too much of Frodo.

"Who owns the castle?" he asked as they stepped out of the enormous living room and back into the drafty hallway. Bilbo was far too busy studying the etchings engraved into the large marble pillars to take note of the wary look the brothers shared before they answered.

"Our uncle," said Kili. "He's away on business."

He didn't notice that the raven-haired teen's voice was much higher too.

But, worst of all, he didn't notice the dark pair of sapphire-blue eyes that narrowed into dangerous slits as Thorin Oakenshield observed him and his nephews walking down the narrow stairway that led into the dungeon.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm incredibly sorry for the _super _late update. I've just been incredibly busy with orchestra/journalism camp/writer's block/catching up on _**Sherlock BBC** _that I completely forgot about this. Anyway, thanks to the tons of positive feedback from you guys. It really boosts my mood whenever I write. Shoutout to: **Bear in the Wood**, **123petmaster**, **Guest**, **Saphireanime**, and **Donna**. Thanks for the catchy reviews. And don't worry! I know where I'm going with this. Hopefully. Probably. Maybe. **  
**


	7. Chapter VII

**Recap: **Bilbo finds Thorin's castle in the woods and decides to check if Frodo had taken refuge in it. He enters and hears Fili and Kili, the Oakenshield princes, discussing his nephew. He ends up tackling both boys to the ground in frustration, but they let it go and help him set Frodo free. Thorin sees Bilbo for the first time.

* * *

**CHAPTER 7:**

"Er, if you don't mind me asking, why do you have a dungeon anyway?"

Fili and Kili exchanged another look. The former raised his eyebrows in a conspiratorial way, and the latter nodded, turning around once more to smile at Bilbo.

"Well, for unexpected visitors like you!" he joked. Bilbo's face drained of all color completely. The prince's eyes widened in alarm and he shook his head hard, sending tendrils of raven-black hair flying everywhere as he did so. "Kidding! Kidding!" he said. Bilbo nodded. "Oh. Oh," was all he said before he resumed biting his fingernails off.

When they finally reached the dungeons, Bilbo was a nervous wreck. This day had been completely exhausting for him, and all he wanted was to go home to Bag End Cottage with Frodo by his side, and a nice cup of warm tea in his hands.

"Right, then. Here we go," Fili murmured, twisting a key in the door sharply and pushing it open. It creaked on it's hinges as it swung, as if it wasn't opened often. For some reason, the hair on Bilbo's arms and nape stood up on end. There was just something about this place that made him wary, and it wasn't just because they had a _bloody _dungeon, for crying out loud!

"Frodo?" Kili called. His voice bounced off the stone walls, making it seem magnified. After so many hours of hearing nothing but the rustle of leaves and the cawing of the birds in the forest, the sound seemed ominously loud. The trio waited for a response, but none came.

"Are you sure he's down here?" Bilbo asked. He bit his lip, looking into every cell they passed. All of them were empty, save for the second to the last one in the first row, which held a gory-looking skeleton inside (Bilbo tried not to think about who the person had been). "We could've sworn Uncle dragged him down here," Kili mumbled. Bilbo's brow crinkled.

"What was that?" he inquired.

(Fili nearly smacked his brother on the head.)

"Nothing, nothing. Just wondering whether or not you were staying for dinner," he said cheerfully, shooting daggers at Kili. The younger Oakenshield brother shrugged and hefted the torch he was holding a bit higher. The better to see the inside of the cells with. "I thought you said your Uncle was away on a trip?" Bilbo asked innocently.

"D-D-Did I say 'Uncle'? Uh, no! I said...I said...I said..."

"Buncle! He's, uh, he's the head of our guards, and he's, you know, suspicious of-"

"Fili? Kili?" Bilbo interrupted.

"Yeah?" both brothers said in unison. "The both of you are _really _bad liars," Bilbo answered, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing the pair with a grimace. "Did he or did he not drag my nephew down here? Your Uncle, I mean," Bilbo spoke again. Kili and Fili bit their lips at the same time, hands twitching nervously at their sides.

"Maybe? Maybe not?" Fili said with a weak chuckle.

Bilbo ran a tired hand across his face.

"Why in Mahal's name would he do that?" he asked. He was far too exhausted to even get angry anymore. And that was saying something. As far as Frodo was concerned (Not to mention two princes who were just as bad), his supply of disapproving faces and long sermons were unlimited.

"Well, uh, because...because..."

"Uncle?"

Bilbo jumped, his stiff posture breaking apart. "Did you hear that? Or am I simply going bonkers?" he inquired. His head whipped around, russet curls bouncing up and down as he did so. "It sounded close. Come on, let's go this way," Fili suggested. He was getting rather jumpy now, what with his brother's tongue accidentally slipping and almost revealing the secret they protected the most.

_What if Uncle Thorin comes down here and catches us? Oh, he is going to flip!_ Fili thought frantically. He was repeatedly curling his fingers into fists, trying (and failing) to calm himself down. Only the Valar knew how much he wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible. He didn't want a repeat of what had happened the last time his Uncle had caught him and Kili trying to free a prisoner.

Unconsciously, Fili's fingers flew to the scar on his arm, hidden by the various layers of clothing he wore. Thorin had given it to him accidentally last June. He'd flown into a rage and leaped at Kili, his animal-like side taking over once more. Without even thinking about it, Fili had pushed his brother aside and lifted a hand in defense, Thorin's long claws raking down his arm.

After that, Thorin had become somewhat much more controlled, but there were still times when he'd fallen asleep listening to his Uncle roar and smash things somewhere in the West Wing.

"Frodo!"

Fili flew out of his memory-induced daze as Bilbo hurtled past him, arms spread wide as he nearly jumped towards the cell where his Uncle had stashed Frodo. The bars were wide enough that Bilbo was able to give Frodo a halfway decent hug, burying his nose in the younger teen's curly black hair. The moment was so sweet that Fili found himself looking away.

_Uncle never hugged me like that, even when I nearly fell from one of the towers when I was younger. Uncle never worried about me like that, even when I got lost in the woods for three days. Uncle never cared for me like that. Uncle, Uncle, Uncle..._

"Are you alright? Well, of course, you're not. Look at your hands! They're freezing cold and your forehead's getting hotter by the minute!"

_Uncle never praised me for what I did. Uncle never took care of me whenever I got sick. Uncle never played with me and Kili when we wanted him too. Uncle never told us that he loved us. Uncle, Uncle, Uncle..._

"Can you get him out? Fili? Fili!"

The elder Oakenshield brother snapped out of his daze once more. Kili, Bilbo, and Frodo were now looking at him with the oddest expressions on their faces.

"Uh, sorry, what?" he asked.

Kili sighed and put his hands on his hips. "We were saying, could you pick the lock and get them out?" Fili stepped over to the bars and put the lock in his hand, twisting it over and over. After another minute or so of inspection, he nodded and pulled a little bit of twine from his pocket. "I think so. I just need a little amount of-"

_**BANG!**_

Frodo screamed loudly as the dungeon doors burst open from somewhere to their immediate right, the torches sputtering once in their sockets before they went out completely.

"Oh no," Fili murmured underneath his breath. He then proceeded to jimmy the lock in total darkness, the twine catching a little on his fingers as he did so.

"It's alright, it's alright, love. We're not underwater, alright? This is just darkness," muttered Bilbo. His fingers rubbed soothing circles onto the back of Frodo's hand. The thirteen-year-old, on the other hand, refused to be placated. "It's dark! It's dark! I'm going to die. Drowning. Mum. Dad," he babbled incoherently, obviously not knowing what to do anymore.

"I think he's having hysterics. Maybe you should slap him," Kili suggested in an innocent tone. "Not helping, Ki," Fili hissed. He was working furiously now, his fingers flying back and forth as he tried his best to pick the lock without using his eyes.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the lock gave a sharp _click!_ and came loose in his hands.

"There! I got it and-"

_ROAR!_

Both princes flew into action, pulling both uncle and nephew out of their fear-induced stupors and to their feet. "Come on. Plenty of time to be scared later," Fili whispered as he ushered Bilbo and Frodo in the opposite direction. Big mistake.

Thorin flew out of the darkness, his purple cape swishing like black wings of doom.

All four of them froze.

"WHO ARE YOU? AND WHY ARE YOU RELEASING MY PRISONER?" he roared.

To everybody's surprise (including his own), it was Bilbo who spoke up. He stepped in front of the three teenagers, putting protective hands on Fili and Kili's chests. Frodo, on the other hand, clutched onto the younger Oakenshield brother's sleeve. His nails dug into Kili's wrist, and it was all the fourteen-year-old could do not to shake him off and yelp like a wounded animal.

"Because he has no right to be dragged down here! Judging from the slashes on his legs, my nephew barely escaped with his life from a Warg attack! What kind of host are you?"

His voice didn't shake, and Bilbo liked it that way.

"Er, Master Baggins, I don't think ch-"

"SILENCE!" Thorin roared.

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Bilbo screamed over the noise. He'd just had enough of everything, and his patience had already snapped like a thin thread. "Who are you, anyway?"

"The master of this castle," Thorin answered, slightly taken aback at having somebody else scream at him like that. After all, he was the one who called the shots in this castle. Not this small fellow who somehow managed to make him do just what he wanted Thorin to do. Which was, in all purposes clear enough, to shut the hell up.

"Look, I've just come here to get Frodo out. And I don't want any trouble at all. So, please, let us out. Can't you see? He's sick!" Bilbo pleaded. His resolve was slowly fading, but he knew that he had to be strong for Frodo and the princes' sake.

"Then he shouldn't have trespassed here!" Thorin bellowed. His courage was coming back, now that the man in front of him was starting to show fear. And yet, he felt a slight twang of pain. Who wouldn't be scared of him after all? He was a beast and he knew it. He was supposed to be feared and this small creature and his relative were no exceptions.

So, why, in the name of Aulë wasn't he doing so?

Hell yeah, he was scared. Thorin could see it in his eyes. But, there was something in the way that he held himself that signaled that he wasn't going to back down, not with his nephew's freedom on the line.

"But, he could've died! Please, please, please, sir. I-I-I'll do anything!" Bilbo said. His voice was practically cracking now. And he absolutely hated the way he was cowering.

"There's nothing you can do! He's my prisoner," Thorin answered. Pieces of his bravado were coming back, but why was he feeling, well, guilt? He owed this person, this Mr. Baggins, nothing. So, why, why, why?

He started to turn away, to hide as he always did, but Bilbo rushed forward and seized the hem of his cloak.

"Oh, wait! There must be some way I can...Yes, yes, that's it! Take me instead!" he begged.

"Uncle Bilbo, no! You don't know what you're doing!" Frodo squeaked out. He surged towards Bilbo, but the two princes held him back. The teen squealed and flailed, pummeling the pair with his fists, but they were far too strong. After a little while, he gave up, fists stinging.

"Frodo, love, hush," Bilbo said. He didn't look back; his eyes were starting to fill with tears and it was all he could do not to sob.

To Thorin, he asked: "If I did, would you please, _please_, let him go?"

The king mulled his options over for a minute. He had no use for the boy anyway. And besides, what if...what if...what if Bilbo was the one who had the capacity to break his curse?

No, he didn't want to hope for the impossible. But, still, a tiny tendril of said feeling curled around his heart and settled there.

"Yes. But you must promise to stay here forever," he answered. The man, Bilbo, was silent for a minute. Then, he let go of Thorin's cloak and gently arranged the fabric around the king's shoulders.

"If it's not too much, would you please come into the light?" he requested after a minute's thought. Thorin immediately stiffened. If he did as Bilbo asked, there was no doubt that he would openly fear him now. But, then again, he seemed to be a man of his word. And there wasn't much that he was going to be getting once he stayed in the castle, so why not?

Slowly, he stepped away from Bilbo and walked towards the little window. White moonbeams, like liquid radiance, filtered through it, and the minute Thorin stepped into the light, he was encased in the glow, accenting his feline-like features and the fact that he was more beast than man. It didn't help matters that his horns gleamed in the silvery beams.

He heard Bilbo gasp.

"No, Uncle! I can't, I _won't_, let you do this!" Frodo said. He had resumed his squealing once more, and it took all of Thorin's willpower not to roar at him.

Bilbo bit his lip and turned to look at his nephew. He was far too young to spend his entire life in a dusty cell, while as Bilbo had lived the most out of his long, but boring, life. And in that moment, he made his mind up. He stepped forward and touched Thorin's arm.

(The king noted, with another touch of hope, that he didn't shudder at the feel of fur and muscle.)

"Y-Y-You have my word," he forced out.

"Done!" Thorin roared.

He snapped his fingers at his nephew and ordered for them to ride Frodo back into the town. As they hurtled past, Bilbo latched onto Frodo's shirt.

"Wait! I haven't said goodbye yet!" he protested.

"No goodbyes!" Thorin yelled as Fili and Kili struggled to break them apart. With an exasperated growl, he grabbed Frodo by the scruff of his shirt himself, and stalked off towards the open dungeon door.

He took a few shortcuts, trying his best to ignore Frodo's screams, and opened another door that led to the castle's main grounds. He whistled once and, out of the darkness, came another pony. This one was midnight black and had greenish streaks in her hair, thanks to Fili and Kili's experiments when they were a child.

"Take him to the town. Now!"

Without further ado, he put the struggling child onto Minty, for that was the horse's name, and strode back towards the castle.

He had a prisoner to entertain.

* * *

**A/N: **Finally! A chapter where my OTP meets! So, I'm just going to answer a few questions you lovely people had left me in the comments: First, to **Saphireanime**, howdy again! Yep, there's a curse. But, only on Thorin. I originally intended for them to turn into magical objects, just like the film, but it proved too time-consuming, and besides: how the heck are you going to fit _thirteen _Dwarfs aspects and personalities into five characters only (You know, Mrs. Potts, Lumiere, Cogsworth, Chip). So, yeah. It's only Thorin.

Second, hey, **Donna**! Nice to see you! I think you're just gonna have to wait for the end because, well, I don't want to spoil who dies and who doesn't. Because, like **Bear in the Wood** once mentioned, I don't stick to the BatB story line too much.

And now, here's the part where I thank each and every person who viewed, reviewed, followed, etc. this ridiculous AU. I love you, guys!


	8. Chapter VIII

**Recap: **Fili and Kili bring Bilbo to the dungeons. They find Frodo in a matter of minutes and just when they're about to leave, Thorin arrives and blocks their way. Bilbo reasons with him and agrees to take Frodo's place as Thorin's prisoner.

* * *

**CHAPTER 8:**

"He didn't even let me say goodbye," Bilbo whispered over and over again.

The minute Thorin had disappeared, the poor man had slumped to the floor and curled up into a tight ball, locking his arms around his knees, and rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. Shiny tears kept on streaming down his face. His eyes were puffy and red from crying a little too much.

"There, there, Mister Baggins. I-I-It's going to be alright," Kili whispered. He bit his lip the minute the words left his mouth. Of course it wouldn't be 'alright' as he had oh-so-carelessly comforted. Frodo was gone and Bilbo was miserable. To make matters worse, he and Fili would surely be on the receiving end of their Uncle's anger tonight. It was a thing that the younger Oakenshield brother was most definitely not looking forward to.

_**BANG!**_

_Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear_, Kili thought tiredly, barely suppressing a groan that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Instead, he settled for coughing discreetly, catching Fili's eye in the process. He then began to tap his fingernails on the cold floor, the little _ping! ping! ping! _sounds ricocheting a little too loudly in the dungeon's ominous silence.

_D'you think Uncle'll whup us for what we did tonight?_

In his peripheral vision, he saw Fili shrug a little. After a minute, Fili's own version of Morse Code rapped out on the floor as well.

_Hopefully? Not. I like my buttocks size the way it is, thanks, mate._

Kili laughed, a short bitter chuckle that died out the minute Thorin made his reappearance. Beside him, Bilbo was still mumbling like a deranged lunatic. And if anything, the pace of his rocking had only increased. Seeing no other way to calm him down, Kili sighed and continued to rub comforting circles on the back of Bilbo's hand. He smiled a little when he felt Bilbo's stiff hold on his knees loosen a little bit.

"Come. Let me show you to your room," Thorin stated.

At that, Bilbo stopped moving completely. Kili could even swear that he heard the man's breath hitch.

"M-M-My room?" he spluttered out. His voice was a little hoarse, but it was still chime-like and musical to Thorin's ears (Not that he would ever admit that out loud, let alone to _himself_).

"Well, if you want to stay in the dungeons, then, fine!" Thorin roared. Fili rolled his eyes at his Uncle's dramatics and put a bracing arm under Bilbo's armpits. "Of course he wants a room, Uncle. He's just dazed, is all. Losing your family members and not even getting to say goodbye because of a giant dick does that to you. Come on, Master Baggins. Up on your feet," he said, not even bothering to lift his head to see the shocked expression on Kili's face.

As he walked past Thorin, the elder put a hand out, barring his way.

"We will speak about your behavior later," he said in an icy tone. Fili gulped. His outburst had been a spur of the moment thing. It was purely impulse and now he was going to pay for it. Just thinking about it made his scar tingle again, though of course that was ridiculous since that had happened three months ago.

"Of course," he answered. "Lead the way, Uncle. I'll hold onto Master Baggins."

He was _so _dead.

* * *

Forty grueling minutes later, Fili and Kili found themselves in the West Wing, looking every bit as stoical as the other. Their faces were set into hard lines and their arms were crossed over their chests. The perfect picture of seriousness. A light breeze, a chilly one, at that, blew in through the window in front of them, making Kili shiver a little. But, his mind wasn't on the cold.

It was on Frodo, and he wondered briefly whether the thirteen-year-old had reached the town yet. If he, by some cruel trick of the Valar, didn't, he would never stop blaming himself. After all, it had been him who had suggested that Frodo take a short break in the sitting room. And although Fili didn't voice that opinion out loud, he knew his brother was thinking the same.

He shook his head lightly, ridding it of the incessant thoughts that had started to fill his brain. The last thing he needed right now was a cluttered mind. Not when he had to watch whatever he said and did. A few seconds later, Thorin marched into the room, his face stormy. His sapphire-blue eyes, a feature that only Fili had inherited.

(Kili had gotten his Uncle Frerin's hazel-green eyes. He laughed inwardly as he remembered their Mum's pique of frustration when nobody had gotten her cinnamon brown ones.)

"So, Fili," Thorin began. "Would you care to elaborate why you called me, your _Uncle_, 'a giant dick'?"

"Because you are," Kili murmured under his breath.

"What was that?" Thorin snapped.

"Nothing, nothing."

Kili turned his gaze to his Uncle's desk, his breathing still turning ragged whenever his eyes transfixed on the floating Arkenstone under it's glass case. It had been a gift from the Enchantress. She had said that little by little, the pretty jewel would lose it's luster and that it would only last up until Thorin's fifth year as a Beast...which was going to happen in less than three months or so.

Only half of the Arkenstone still glowed anymore. And that, as far as both Oakenshield nephews, were concerned, was bad.

After all, the rules had been simple. They had been there after all when Lady Galadriel herself had stated them: Learn to love and be loved in return. If not, he would remain a Beast until he passed onto Valinor.

"Fili, I asked you a question. Answer it," Thorin demanded. His voice snapped Kili back to the present. Unconsciously, his hand found it's way into his brother's. Only the Valar knew how much the blonde needed his brother's support right now. Not to mention the fact that it would be extremely easy to pull Fili out of danger if ever Thorin decided to lunge at them again.

"Well..." Fili spluttered out.

"'Well' _what_?"

"Well, because my _giant dick _of an Uncle didn't even let an innocent pair of relatives say goodbye to each other! Are you really going as bonkers as half the castle staff thinks you are? And don't give me that face, Uncle. You know perfectly well that you _are. _Look at you: keeping innocent children in cages after all they asked for was refuge, separating Master Baggins and Frodo, being your usual selfish, not to mention completely stuck-up self. What the hell's gotten into you?"

Thorin opened and closed his mouth for a few minutes, completely rendered speechless by his nephew's words. He turned his back on them so both brothers wouldn't see the faint flicker of hurt that had registered in his eyes. Fili's words had simultaneously broken and waked something inside of him. He just didn't know what those were. Yet. And he had a feeling that he was going to find out soon, whether he liked it or not.

"Silence!" he finally roared. "How dare you talk to me like that? I, who fed you and clothed you and put a roof over your heads for-"

"Oh, _shut up_, Uncle! Do you even hear yourself? Why can't you ever think of what the people around you feel? Is it to bloody hard? I mean, slashing a claw down my arm needed more effort than that, you know," Fili said coldly.

"How dare you!" Thorin repeated. For once, he was the one feeling sheepish. Not to mention completely cowed by his nephew's outburst. He wasn't used to having his motives questioned after all. And by his _heir_, at that.

"Hell yeah, I dare. Because quite frankly, Uncle? I've had enough. Ask anybody in this damned hellhole. We're all sick and tired of how you treat us. Of having to put up your ever-changing moods. You and your bloody dramatics! You and your phobia of getting too close to anybody, just because you look like that! Everybody here isn't as judgmental of looks as you are, you know! Because we aren't as dumb as you think we are!"

Thorin recoiled physically, as if Fili's words were slaps. And even if they weren't, hell, they sure felt like it.

Kili gripped his seething brother's hand softly, as if to say: _Alright, that's enough. Calm down._

Which was quite a surprise, really, because Fili had always been known as the pacifist, and he, Kili, the one who started the fights to begin with.

"Uncle, we love you. We _really _do. I mean, why would the twelve of us stay if we didn't? And don't start on the Ur brothers only wanting money. Even though they're quite poor, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur are quite decent. More so than you on most days, really. But, that's not what I'm trying to say. What I'm trying to convey to you is this: Don't you ever mull on the fact that we, me and Fili, specifically, want to get to know you a little bit more? But you never let us. All you've done ever since Lady Galadriel put that curse on you was push all us away. Heck, you even managed to hurt _Dwalin's _feelings. Your insensitive _best friend _who wouldn't even care if Fili and I called him all the foul names in the world. And that's what's making all of us so annoyed. You know, sometimes, even _I _wonder why I even bother with you in the first place."_  
_

When Thorin didn't respond, Fili tugged on his brother's hand and started to lead him towards the West Wing's door. When they reached it, both brothers stopped, feeling strangely lightheaded and empty at having what they wanted to say for years out in the open at last.

"We're sorry, Uncle. But, it's just true. Please, try to talk to Dwalin. He misses you, the big lug. And even though he tries to deny it, we can see the hurt in his eyes whenever we bring you up. And besides, you have Master Baggins now, Uncle. You could try and befriend him."

Thorin snorted.

"Him? Befriend a beast like me? Impossible. It's fool's hope, Fili, whatever you're feeling," he said.

"Sure, call it whatever you like. Just...try to be _civil_. Please. For Master Bilbo's sake. You've robbed him of his nephew and his freedom all in one day. I'd be pretty chuffed too if that happened to me. But, that's not the point. The point is that you have _friends_, Uncle. Good people who care about you and your welfare. Think about that, Uncle. Because until you figure everything out, maybe me and Kili won't come to you for a little while."

And without another word, the pair left, leaving Thorin to feel the sting of their words and the pain of just how lonely he was, indeed.

* * *

"Frodo...Frodo..My poor boy..."

Bilbo sniffed once more as he burrowed his face deeper into the soft linen sheets of his bed. The room he had been put in was grand. Not the type of room that an ordinary commoner like him burrowed in. But he could've been sleeping in a cell, for all it was worth. Frodo was gone and there was nothing he could do about that.

"Frodo...Frodo..."

"Who's Frodo?"

Bilbo jumped upright. He ignored the sudden onslaught of head rush that came with it, and looked around: There, standing in the open doorway, were three more men.

_Part of Thorin's staff, perhaps,_ he thought.

He noticed that all three of them had grand beards, all styled up in the loveliest of fashions. The first man, the one whose hair was long enough to be put into matching pigtails and was wearing a funny-looking hat, stepped forward. He was clutching a tray of tea in his hand and he was wearing what seemed like the friendliest smile that Bilbo had seen in a long time.

"Bofur. At your service," he said, sweeping Bilbo a bow.

"Good evening," he croaked. Bofur, as the man called himself, handed him a cup of the steaming drink. Bilbo merely stared at it at first. It was like his brain had flipped upside down and he didn't even know how to do the most basic of things anymore.

"You're supposed to drink it while it's hot, Mister Bilbo," Bofur said.

"H-H-How did you know my name?" he inquired. "Well, word gets out fast enough, what with Thorin having thirteen servants only," Bofur answered. "Why am I not surprised? Attitude like his?" Bilbo said icily.

Bofur chuckled.

"He's a decent enough fellow. Well, once you get to know him. Right, boys?"

_Boys?_

"Fili? Kili? Is that you?" he asked, his words slightly muffled by the mug he was drinking from. "Aye, it's us. And don't worry, Master Baggins. We talked to him. He won't be bothering you for a little while."

Bilbo snorted, thinking back to the event that had happened an hour prior. Thorin had invited him forcefully to dinner, and of course, he had declined.

"Well, that's lovely."

The teens walked over to him, pushing each other around and half-wrestling the other as they trotted. Halfway through their stride, Kili accidentally pushed Fili a little too hard and the elder bumped into a still standing Bofur, the teapot clattering to the floor and breaking into a million bits. Unexpectedly, Bilbo laughed. The look on all three of them were priceless. Almost like seeing a kid who'd broken his Mum's china and expected to be scolded.

"Don't tell Dori," was all Bofur said before he dashed out of the room.

Bilbo laughed once more and both teens turned to look at him.

"What?" they asked simultaneously.

"Nothing. I've just got the feeling that maybe, just maybe, with you three around, I could appreciate living here."

The answering grins on their faces were so wide that Bilbo couldn't help but smile back as well.


	9. Chapter IX

**Recap: **Both of the Oakenshield brothers decide that they have had enough of Thorin's general bossiness and give him a slight ultimatum: they will not talk to him until he changes his ways. Bilbo meets Bofur and decides that maybe, just maybe, life in Erebor Palace will be tolerable enough.

* * *

**CHAPTER 9:**

Once, when he was only six years old, Frodo Baggins had gotten himself lost in the woods. Primula and Drogo didn't find him until three days later, half-dead from starvation and dehydration. Not to mention utmost fear at every branch that had creaked and cracked in the dead of night, when poor little Frodo had curled up in a tree roots' hole for the night.

His terror then didn't even compare to the bout of fear he was feeling right now.

Bilbo was trapped in a gloomy castle with a man-eating beast, and here he was: running away from the scene of the crime itself. But, then again, what could he do against King Thorin's huge paws and razor-sharp claws?

Nothing.

He would've been slashed to ribbons first.

Leaning forward against Minty, he wiped salty tears out of his eyes for what seemed like the nth time that day. Or was it night? The dense canopy of trees overhead were too thick for him to even see where they were going, let alone what time it was. It gave Frodo the familiar sense of drowning, the darkness filling in for the murky water that had crossed Frodo's parents' deaths.

"You're not underwater. You're not underwater," he mumbled under his breath repeatedly. Thanks to whatever god that still had mercy on scared shitless teens, Frodo's heart somewhat slowed down, and his mind cleared considerably. Once he realized that he could think rationally again, the gears in his brain began to whir.

On one hand, he could go back and make a fool out of himself. And on the other…

What?

He didn't exactly have a wide arsenal of options. He didn't know the people in town well enough, and his friends' parents weren't exactly the type of people that you could convince to follow you into a dark forest at whatever time it was.

And then, as if a tiny voice had been whispering in his ear all along, the solution to his problem was solved.

"Smaug," he mumbled. Frodo shook his head, trying to clear it of the arrogant hunter's face. No, no, no. He'd rather die first than ask for help from the snottiest person he knew in town.

_Well, you should've thought of that before you abandoned your Uncle_, another voice whispered in his ear.

Frodo screamed out loud to distract himself, howling Wargs and other unsavory beasts be damned. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault. None of it was. Just like his parents' untimely demises weren't his. He was just thirteen, for crying out loud. He was supposed to be the one who was getting rescued, not the one who did the rescuing.

"But, how? I'm just a kid," he said, even though there was no one around to hear him. It was better to admit it out loud, anyway. In that sense, at least he knew that he had tried his best.

_No, you haven't,_ the same voice mumbled.

"Shut up!" Frodo hissed, batting at his shoulder as if the speaker would magically appear there, wearing a smug smile on his face. As if just by thinking about smirks, preferably ones that reminded him of a certain person whose name started with the letter 'S', Frodo's fists itched.

He closed and unclosed his hands, keeping a steady hold on the reins all the same. His head was pounding, and his stomach was growling. He hadn't had anything to eat in at least twelve hours, and what little sleep he had gotten was obviously not sufficient enough for brainstorming for plans that didn't involve getting Smaug's help.

But, then again, Frodo Baggins had a kind heart. And he loved Bilbo more than anything else in the world, Samwise Gamgee, his best friend, only coming in second.

Bilbo, who had taken him in after his perfect illusion of a perfect world had come crumbling down around him. Bilbo, who had fed him and kept him safe at night when the nightmares had started to become another regularity that he didn't quite look forward to. Bilbo, who had taken great lengths just to keep a roof over his head, despite the fact that he wasn't exactly obliged to. Bilbo, who…

"Alright, alright," Frodo said. "I'll…go to Smaug."

And with a heavy heart, he spurred Myrtle onwards, gritting his teeth at the prospect of meeting what he supposed was the world's greatest idiot.

* * *

"Are you sure you saw a _man _here in the castle, Ori? That seems just as likely to happen as dragons coming back to our valley," Dori scolded, hands on his hips, and looking every bit like the matronly personality that he was known for.

Ori, the lad in question, nodded, cow-brown eyes as big as saucers. He was only twelve, with long brown hair that Dori had insisted on cutting into an ugly bowl-cut do a few weeks ago.

(Ori positively hated it.)

"And what on earth would another human being be doing here? You know very well that villagers stopped coming here when-Well, you know what I mean," Dori finished. His lips were pursed, and strands of his slowly-graying hair were falling into his face, but he merely flicked them away. Such was his concentration when he was grating his younger brother for doing something (Well, in _his _opinion, anyway) wrong. Or rather, doing something that Nori, the castle's resident thief, had taught him.

Ori huffed noisily and shifted his heavy leather-bound journal to his left hand. It had been a gift from Dorleen, their mother, when he had celebrated his tenth birthday. The last one they had all spent together as a proper family, when Dori was still nice all the time and Nori didn't have to steal to keep them alive and Ori was happy and all of them had still been living in Hobbiton.

That all changed, however, when the boys' parents died mysteriously overseas while working. After that, the young scribe's life had been a massive blur, what with the former mayor evicting them when their money ran out, and having everybody in town ask him whether or not Nori _did _get the mayor's daughter pregnant (which may have partly been the reason why they had gotten evicted). Not to mention the countless nights they had to spend in the woods with all of the beasts and insects, some of them eating two or three of the pages in Ori's precious journal while all three brothers slumped against each other in a tree root's hole to preserve warmth.

Then, everything had changed when Nori had 'accidentally' wandered into Thorin's castle and stole a silver chalice with his heart set on selling it for a couple of loaves of bread and a small wheel of cheese. Lady Dis, Kili and Fili's mother, was still alive then, and it was she who took pity on the 'Ri brothers and had pleaded with Thorin to give Dori and Nori jobs, and little Ori a home.

Not to mention to finally grant Kili's wish of having somebody closer to his age to play with.

So, they stayed, and Ori had grown up in the castle ever since then. Even when his King had turned into a vicious beast that had the capacity to kill all of them with a single swipe of his razor-sharp talons.

"I don't know _exactly _why he's here, _but_," Ori added in a shrill voice when Dori's eyebrows started to disappear into his hairline, "he seemed to be looking for his nephew. I think his name was Frodo? The nephew, I mean. Not the man."

Dori's nose wrinkled.

"It all seems fishy to me, that's what it is," said the elder.

He snatched Ori's journal from his hands and lifted it high above the tween's head.

"But first, young man, you'll have to take a bath if we _do _have company."

Ori's expression was a wonderful sight to behold.

"Do I _have _to? I mean, Nori doesn't take a bath every day and you don't force him to," Ori pointed out, hands still grasping for his book. Dori merely rolled his eyes; it was a regular reflex to Ori's overly-used reason. "Nori's turning twenty-one next month. He can do whatever he likes. As for you-Hey! Get back here!"

Dori pounced on his younger brother, but the latter was too quick. In Dori's haste, he had also dropped the journal and Ori had scooped it up with his slender fingers, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Who's the slowpoke now?" Ori teased, dancing away from his brother and towards the kitchen door, where he could lose himself in the castle's massive hallways and find his way into the library where he could hide in peace for a few hours or so in the dusty tomes Thorin had stored in the room.

At least, until Dori found him.

(Which was _always _within five minutes, no matter how quickly he moved through the library. Bugger.)

"Still you!" replied Dori, letting himself be a child for a minute and sticking his tongue out at his younger brother, before he pounced and knocked Ori to the floor, the journal clattering onto the porcelain tiles and sliding extremely close to the still-hot oven.

"My journal!" cried Ori.

He extricated himself from Dori's grip, which had slackened, and picked the precious book up, scanning the pages for ash and scorch marks. Thankfully, there were none.

"Still good," he said when the elder's face morphed into a questioning expression.

"Well...that's nice to hear. You should really take care of that, you know. I mean, because...you know."

"I do. And I will. I always have."

"I believe you."

Both brothers smiled all melancholy-like at each other, their brains whirring with memories from the past. After a few seconds of this, Dori spoke.

"You still have to take a bath."

"Aw, shoot!"

* * *

"...and this is the kitchen!"

Bofur pulled the lever down and flourished his hand as he and Bilbo stepped into the lavish room, the latter's eyes widening at the sight of so much food and utensils to cook said food with.

"I can really come here any time?" he asked, fingers stretched out to feel a sprig of parsley as they passed a vegetable rack. "'Course! This is your home now, ain't it?" Bofur said cheerfully. The minute the words were out of his mouth, Bilbo's face fell.

"Oh. Yes, right. I'm here forever, aren't I?" he said, turning his face to the right and blinking as rapidly as he could so that his tears wouldn't spill out. Bofur, who simply had a radar for emotions, be it sad, happy, or whatnot, _tssk!_ed and ripped the pocket off his simple clothing for lack of a handkerchief.

"There, there, Master Baggins," he soothed, handing Bilbo the scrap of clothing. He averted his eyes respectfully as Bilbo dabbed and wiped at them. "You'll get used to it. The castle, I mean. It's not so bad, what with it having nice, warm rooms and lots of food and a gigantic library."

The last three words were what caught Bilbo's attention.

"There's a library here?"

Bofur smiled.

"Yes. And I'm pretty sure Thorin would allow you to use it to your heart's content, so long as you asked."

Bilbo's face soured. He tugged a little too hard on a box of ripe tomatoes and the entire lot spilled out. Bofur laughed and helped Bilbo pick the fruits ('_botanically speaking_', as Dori had always insisted) up. Together, they washed and put the food back into it's proper box, Bofur blabbering away the entire time about Thorin's 'good points', leaving Bilbo no other choice but to listen.

"He's a nice enough chap. Well, once you _really_ get to know him, which might take an awful lot of time if the both of you keep bickering with each other."

The younger man snorted, enjoying the feel of cool water on his fingers. It felt nice after a strenuous trip in the forest, what with Myrtle wanting to pass through every tricky road possible.

"Bofur, I've only been living here for a few hours. Call it a day, even, considering the fact that I don't know what time it is. But, trust me. I could never learn to like a person as bossy as he. Not to mention...horrifying to look at. Not that I'm a judgmental person when it comes to looks. It's just...well...er..."

"Like I said, you'll just have to get used to it," said Bofur, neatly re-stacking five tomatoes into the box and bending down to pick up a stray one.

"I could never get used to it. Besides, I'm positive that Thorin-oh, right! Sorry. _King _Thorin spends his waking hours- if he even sleeps- holed up in that musty attic of his. The one he'd screamed to me about."

Bofur looked sheepish; his braided pigtails seemed to have wilted.

"Thorin is just a little...protective of that particular place. Everything he values is in there: his books, photographs he likes to look at on his good days, the Arkenstone that also doubles as a magic mirror-Careful!"

"Sorry."

Bilbo righted the plate his wrist had accidentally bumped into, and dried his hands. "Now, what were you saying about a stone and a magic mirror?" Bofur twisted his dishrag in his hands, his lips pouting and un-pouting. "Well, it was kind of supposed to be a secret and something that only us staff knows about, but, alright."

His lips curled once more into a cheeky smile and he strapped the dishrag onto his shoulder. He then hopped up onto the counter and patted the space next to him. Bilbo hesitated for only a few seconds before emulating what Bofur had done, stumbling a little when his bare feet caught on the bottom cabinet's handle.

When he was settled, Bofur began to speak, and Bilbo was drawn into King Thorin's tale.

"It was quite stormy that night. The lights inside this very room kept on flickering on and off, and I had to keep on telling stories so that Ori wouldn't get scared. You'll meet him later," he added, upon seeing Bilbo's confused look as to who this Ori person was. "Anyway, moving on. We were just about sure that the roof was going to collapse on our heads when somebody knocked on the door. Thorin, well, he was bored, I guess. So, he answered the door himself. And this is where the fun part starts."

Bofur rubbed his hands together gleefully. Bilbo's eyebrows only knitted closer together.

"You see, standing on the front step was an old lady. She was really ugly, or so Fili and Kili told me, since they were hanging around Thorin's ankles at the time, the little tykes. They've really loved and viewed him as a father figure ever since they were young, you see? They were, I don't know, about four or five for Kili and nine for Fili when they arrived, along with their mother, Lady Dis? She passed away two years ago, by the way. And yeah, I think I got that bit right about their ages."

"Anyway, when 'it' happened, Kili was nine and Fili was fourteen. In fact, it was the day _after_ Fili's fourteenth birthday, which is really the main reason why a lot of us remember it so well."

He was about to go off on another unrelated tangent, when Bilbo cleared his throat.

"Bofur?"

"Yes?"

"The story? You're going completely off-track."

"Oh, yes. Yes. Thanks."

Bofur cleared his throat and adjusted his two-flapped hat, which was currently balanced on his head, as it oh-so-often was.

"Well, when the door opened, the old crone was standing there, drenched to the bone. Kili and Fili immediately took pity on her, softhearted lads they were even back then, and pleaded with Thorin to let her stay, even if it was only for the night. Thorin, well, being _Thorin_, demanded what she would give him in return. The boys told me then that the woman produced a single, white stone from out of nowhere. It was as big as Fili's clenched fist, and it shone like a gleaming diamond. Or, so they say, even _better _than it."

By now, Bilbo's eyes were as huge as stars while Bofur told the tale, weaving words together to bring his audience, in this case, Bilbo, in. His chin was now resting in his hands, which were resting on his lap, even though the bones dug into the soft flesh. Bilbo didn't care. He was far too engrossed in the story to notice that the hairs on his nape were standing up; a telltale sign that he was currently being watched in the very stone the man in front of him was telling him about.

"Then what happened?" he asked, entranced.

"Well, what did you expect?" Bofur countered.

Bilbo bit his lip. Judging from Thorin's fiery personality, it wasn't quite hard to guess.

"He sent her away, didn't he? And she turned out to be a mythical being of some sort?" he answered hesitantly. Bofur's small grin grew and he laughed heartily, throwing his head back and hitting it on the wall behind him in the process, making Bilbo laugh as well. When they had finished chuckling (and finding an ice bag for the lump on poor Bofur's head), he continued.

"Right you are, Master Baggins. As it turned out, she was none other than Lady Galadriel herself, Lady of the Forest and fairest of the Elves of Lothlorien. Fili and Kili ran, but Thorin fell to his knees, begging for mercy. She didn't listen to his pleas, because...how did she put it? Ah, yes: 'You failed to listen to mine. Now, I shall turn a deaf ear to yours'."

"Then, she touched one of the tips of her slender fingers to Thorin's forehead and...well, you know what happened next. He turned-"

"Into the beast he is today," Bilbo finished quietly, eyes fixed on his lap. Suddenly, the lines on his index finger seemed to be so much more interesting than Bofur's dark green eyes, which he had been looking into intently to show how absorbed he was in the story. Apparently, Bofur wasn't finished.

"There's more. According to the lads, Thorin told them about Lady Galadriel's...extra instructions."

"I'm listening. Go on."

"Well, the Arkenstone would only glow for five years. Meaning, the curse ends in less than three months."

For some odd reason, Bilbo felt a twinge of...something.

Guilt? No. He didn't do anything to Thorin. Nothing at all, unless you counted screaming in the beastly King's face that he didn't want to have dinner with him tonight or any day after that.

Remorse? For what? He didn't owe Thorin or his precocious nephews, let alone Lady Galdriel herself, anything.

Pity?

_Yes_, a tiny voice in Bilbo's head spoke.

He shook his head to get rid of it, and ran a hand through his dark auburn curls, as if by doing so, he could erase the unnerving feeling of...pity directed towards the King.

"So? What's going to happen in three months, then?"

"Well...Lady Galadriel said that, if Thorin didn't find his 'other half', be it a man or a woman-"

"I'm sorry, but did you say 'man'?"

"Yup."

The thought wasn't foreign to Bilbo, what with Smaug courting him and all that, but the thought of Thorin actually sharing his life with somebody else made him want to laugh. Or strangle somebody. Preferably both at once. An errant thread on his shirt fluttered upwards; Bilbo pulled it loose and began to wrap it around his pointer finger, only unwrapping it when it started to feel cold and turn slightly blue.

He was so preoccupied that he didn't notice that Bofur had also turned quiet, and had begun to twist his hat around in his hands, whistling a cheerful tune all the while. It sounded eerily morbid in the quiet, cavernous kitchen, and Bilbo shuddered during every other third or fourth note. Both men jumped when Bilbo's stomach rumbled loudly, the younger of the two looking every bit as embarrassed as he was supposed to be.

"Oops. Sorry. I haven't eaten anything in..." He did a quick headcount. "...twelve hours."

Bofur laughed and squeezed one of Bilbo's shoulders.

"Then, let's get dinner. We're in a kitchen, after all."

He hopped off the sink and began to make his way over to the stove, grabbing a random ingredient whenever he passed by it and putting it elsewhere. That was one thing he liked about Bofur, Bilbo decided: his inability to stay still for too long.

Then, like a light switch being turned on, an idea dinged to life inside Bilbo's head.

"Bofur?"

"Hmmm?"

The air was now filled with the scent of herbs and various spices. Some sort of stew, perhaps?

"You didn't finish your story. What's going to happen to Thorin when the three months are up and he still hasn't found a...partner?" he finished, for lack of a better word. Bofur laughed, only this time, it was mirthless and sort of cold.

"Oh, I'm glad you asked. Well, let's just put it this way:..."

He turned around to face Bilbo, putting the stove to '**Low**', before he ran a horizontal finger across the width of his neck while making a screeching noise. Bilbo didn't have to ask what _that _meant. He shuddered. Even if Thorin was mean and smelly and bossy and...well, everything he _wasn't_, he thought that nobody deserved to die that way. Such was the incomparable goodness of Bilbo Baggins' large heart.

"Isn't that a bit...harsh?" Bilbo asked in a hesitant voice a few seconds later.

Bofur shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's for the best? Or not. Who knows? And on that happy note, stew's ready! You coming?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

* * *

Thorin growled loudly when the two walked out of the kitchen, laughing like old pals, their hands clutching silverware and bowls full of tomato-and-beef stew.

"He'll dine with a...with a..._commoner_, but he won't die with _me_? ARRGGH!"

He tossed the Arkenstone to the side before his other paw flew out, hitting an ancient porcelain vase in the process. Thorin whirled around, raking his talons down King Thror's portrait. He growled, all feral-like and inhuman, spittle frothing from his lips.

When he'd let his anger out, he slumped to the floor in a defeated slump. He hid his face in his hands and moaned.

"It's hopeless," he said, voice gravelly.

Thorin looked into the mirror opposite him and felt truly depressed. Staring right back at him were his own twinkly blues, the only vestige left of whatever handsomeness he had had when he was still...not..._this_.

He snatched the Arkenstone up again, and said, "Show me the man. I mean, Bilbo. Show me Bilbo." When the jewel refused, he sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. "_Please_," he stressed. The Arkenstone glowed almost painfully for a few seconds, then it cleared. There was Bilbo, sitting elbow-to-elbow with Bofur, chuckling heartily to a joke that the miner had probably made.

He looked so..._happy _and full of life that Thorin nearly smiled himself. Then, he stopped. He'd stopped smiling a long time ago. Four years and nine months ago, to be exact. He threw the Arkenstone to the side and curled into a fetal position on the floor.

"It's hopeless," he repeated. "Who could learn to love somebody like...like...me?"

And for the rest of the night, the beast King stayed like that, thoughts of happier days and his foreboding doom bouncing around inside his mind, the memory of Bilbo Baggins' face pinging around his brain the entire time.

* * *

**A/N:** Oh my gosh! That was probably the hardest (not to mention, _longest) _chapter I've ever done...or so I think? Never mind! First things first: I am **extremely **sorry for the lack of updates for, what, a month? Wow. That was pretty long. **_But_,** I've got a valid excuse: violin school auditions. Not to mention the massive amount of writer's block that hit me like a tidal wave. Sort of like the Baggenshield wave, but on a lesser scale.

Second, MASSIVE-and I do mean -_**MASSIVE**-_ amount of support you've shown for the story! You guys are extremely awesome and is dedicated to all of you who followed, favorited, and reviewed '**Bilbo and the Beast**'.

Third, I will **_try_** to update every week on Friday evenings/Saturdays since I'm now going to boarding school and don't have a laptop. So, yeah.

Hugs and kisses!

**P.S.**: Shoutout to: **yanoe**, **yuki-hime91**, **Marigold Gamgee**, **AndyHood**, **Charybde**, **Angel of Change**, and **Noodles02**! You guys are my newest reviewers, and I'd just like to thank you for taking the time to constructively criticize my story! Another shoutout goes to my 'old' reviewers, a.k.a.: **Becca**, **Donna**, **Saphireanime **and **123petmaster**. You guys rock!

(Also, this note was written at 3:12 A.M., so please pardon the various mistakes in the story and author's note. I love all of you.)


	10. Chapter X

**Recap: **Frodo finally concedes and makes up his mind: he'll go to Smaug to ask for help. Meanwhile, back at the castle, Bofur takes Bilbo on a tour of the entire place. They end up in the kitchen where the former tells the latter all about Thorin's tale, while said topic of the story watches the both of them from the West Wing using the Arkenstone.

* * *

**CHAPTER 10:**

"You're from the village on the outskirts of the forest, right?"

"Hmm? What? Oh, yes, yes, sorry. I'm from Hobbiton, yes."

Dwalin, son of Fundin, rolled his eyes at the little man sitting a few seats down from him and Balin, his elder brother. Unlike the elderly advisor, Dwalin was barely wearing anything, save for Grasper and Keeper's, his two beloved double-blade axes, holders which were still tied firmly to his back. The weight didn't bother him anymore. It was almost as if they were a part of the massive guardsman himself. The fact was halfway true. Nowadays, nobody inside the castle saw Dwalin without Grasper and Keeper anymore, whether they were in his hands or, in regular fashion, slung across his back, giving his shadow the appearance of a menacing angel with jagged wings.

But, then again, Dwalin had _always _been menacing.

Not to mention, intimidating.

It was part of the deal that had come with his appearance: all muscle and hard-packed fat. The complete opposite of Balin, who had always been the scholarly one, even in their younger years.

"And if I may ask, what did you do for a living?" he continued, his knife carefully cutting his raw steak up. The better to make his body bulky with.

"I was, er, a grocer?"

Bilbo finished the question hesitantly, as if he were somehow ashamed of the profession. His green eyes darted nervously around the table, looking at each chair's occupant (There were thirteen of them at the table, all in all) in turn. Thankfully, none of them laughed or even showed the smallest hint of delight at his job preference.

He let out a little sigh of relief and poked his salad around with the tines of his fork. The rest of the meal passed in uneasy silence. Only Dori broke it from time to time, fussing with the napkin ('bib', as Fili and Kili had christened it) around Ori's neck and forcing him to eat at least one green piece of lettuce.

For Bilbo, the dinner was quite overwhelming as well, having met all twelve of Thorin's staff all at once. Most of them were related to another member of the staff in some way (mostly siblings) and Bilbo tried his best to keep up with their names and faces.

He had already met Kili and Fili, so that part was relatively easy. Bofur had introduced him to Bombur and Bifur, his brother and his cousin, respectively, both of which were a piece of cake to remember, thanks in large part to Bombur being quite...big-boned and Bifur having a small ax embedded in his head (More on that later). Then came Balin and Dwalin.

(Or, as Bilbo had called them in his head, 'the good and the bad'.)

Dori, Nori, and Ori were next. All three were quite pleasant and had kept him company while Bofur cooked some more dinner for the rest of them, having expected them to work on their respective posts a little longer. Bilbo was especially fond of little Ori, who had immediately asked him all about Frodo (nicely, of course) and drawn him an almost-lifelike image of his beloved nephew (He had hugged Ori as tightly as he could after that).

Nori was a thief, but Bilbo didn't have any valuables on him, so the auburn-haired young man mostly left him alone, much to Bilbo's (hidden) delight.

The eldest brother, Dori, regaled him with tales of wines and tea shops that he planned to open once he'd saved up enough money for it.

"I just can't figure out how to do that, yet," he had said, winking at Bilbo conspiratorially.

The last two he had been introduced to were Gloin, the castle's resident treasurer, and Oin, Thorin's private medic and the best doctor for miles, or so Fili and Kili had put it.

They didn't talk to Bilbo much, and only glanced his way whenever they needed him to pass the salt shaker or the butter for the steak. All in all, they were a weird group of men (and in Fili, Kili, and Ori's cases: tween and teenagers) that seemed to have formed a bond over one common item: Thorin.

When Bilbo asked why they were so loyal to him, all of them stared at him like he had suddenly sprouted an extra head. And of all people, it had been Ori who had answered with, "Why wouldn't we, sir? He gave us a home, put a roof over our heads, fed us, and paid us fairly. He still does so up until now and he's quite...fair when it comes down to it. Or, well, he _used _to be."

At Dori's scolding prod and mutter of "Wait til we're done, mister", the young scribe looked down and never spoke again.

Bilbo was jolted out of his thoughts when a door from somewhere upstairs slammed shut, accompanied by the sounds of claws scraping against porcelain tiles. If it was even possible, Ori and Bombur slumped deeper into their chairs, a feat that was quite impressive for the chubbier man. By the time Thorin reached the bottom of the stairs, the only thing that was visible of Ori was the top of his bowl-cut hair.

Thorin surveyed the room quietly, dark eyes roving around the table until they landed on Bilbo, who was fidgeting with something unseen in his lap. As if Thorin's gaze was a tangible object, Bilbo looked up.

Blue met green and Thorin felt his pulse speed up, though he couldn't state the reason _why_. Maybe it was something about the way Bilbo's russet curls caught the overhead chandelier's light properly, turning them honey-colored. Or the way his cheeks were a little flushed, what with the intensity of the stare that Thorin was giving him. Or maybe it was how his lips were parted in a neat little 'O', and Thorin couldn't help but think of fitting his own lips to them.

Blood rushed into Thorin's cheeks at the thought, and he gave his head a little shake, clearing it of the incessant thoughts and shook the shaggy black fur that fell into his eyes away.

"Good evening," he greeted in his trademark smooth voice. It was almost like a cat's purr, Bilbo realized, and it sent shivers up his spine as he tried to break their staring match. After a long second, Thorin fixed his gaze upon somebody else and Bilbo felt a hand clamp onto his knee and squeeze.

He inclined his head to the right; Kili was staring at his Uncle as if he were a mere apparition.

"Kili? What's wrong?" Bilbo whispered as quietly as he could. "Uncle _never_ comes down for dinner," the younger Oakenshield prince answered. Bilbo nodded discreetly and reverted his attention to the front, where the King was now talking to Dwalin, who seemed most delighted at the fact that his best friend was talking to him once more. But, he wasn't called strong for nothing. Despite the fact that he wanted to pounce on Thorin and hug him til he couldn't breathe any longer, Dwalin remained in his seat, hands clamped firmly on his eating utensils.

"What are you doing here, Uncle? I thought Bofur had sent your meal up a few hours ago," Fili said.

His tone was still steely and his blue eyes, eyes that were _so much _like Thorin's, were firmly fixed on a point above his Uncle's head.

(Thorin ignored this.)

"I came to educate our new companion, Mister Baggins, like you suggested earlier, nephew."

"I did?"

"You did."

Fili nodded and went back to his meal. He was too cheerful, though. Almost as if the little conversation he had shared with his Uncle had never happened.

(Thorin ignored this as well.)

"Well, Master Baggins, how are you enjoying your...stay here?"

Bilbo bit his lip and looked back at Thorin. "Alright, thanks," he mumbled. He still felt a slight twinge of bitterness over the whole situation, but he was determined to make the best of it like he had always done when he was younger.

"There are certain rules I want to be obeyed in this castle, Master Baggins, and I would just like you to know about them. First of all, never go near the West Wing. If you do, then-," Here, Thorin smiled, showing of his pointy fangs. "-suffer the consequences."

Bilbo nodded. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Second, you may go anywhere you please. You may enter any room you wish, so long as it isn't the West Wing or the outskirts of the gate."

And so they continued, each rule always stressing the point that the West Wing was forbidden. By this time, Bilbo's eyes had started to droop, for he was tired and weary. All he wanted was his old feather bed and a thick quilt tucked over him.

He was just starting to nod off, when-

**_CRASH!_**

"What was that?" he yelped, head snapping back up. He was fully alert now, what with the tremendous noise that had resonated from somewhere. "Easy, Master Baggins. It's only thunder," Balin soothed, rubbing his knee consolingly. Thorin glared at them all, affronted that nobody had even bothered to him prattling on and on about the rules.

"Did you even understand a word I said?" he asked. "Er, well...no," Bilbo answered sheepishly. He rubbed the back of his neck and ran a hand through his mop of russet curls.

Thorin resisted the urge to slap his forehead and groan.

* * *

After dinner, Bilbo and the others helped each other clean up the dishes and the leftover bits of food, then retired for the night.

Kili and Fili were still with him in the best sitting room, though, chattering away in a manner that only two brothers who had been close their entire lives could understand. He watched them fondly, feeling his gut stirring at the memory of so many nights spent just like this, only with a different companion.

_I wonder how Frodo is doing_, he thought sadly. The boy knew how to feed himself, thank God, but what would he do once everything ran out? Starve? Beg on the streets?

No.

He'd go to Mrs. Gamgee first and ask to work for a few pieces of bread. But, judging from the old lady's calm demeanor and gentle personality, she'd probably take him in herself and still keep Bag End, their home, from rotting to the ground.

With a resigned sigh, he slunk deeper into his seat, relieved and thinking that maybe, just maybe, he would enjoy his permanent stay in Thorin's castle.

His ears still filled with the two Oakenshield princes' chatter, Bilbo Baggins fell asleep.

* * *

"He had the nerve to reject me. _Me, _whom girls everywhere fawn over and men turn queer for! _Me_, who can easily break his little nephew's neck with one simple twist! _Me_, who could probably spit fire and grow wings if I willed my body to!"

Smaug knocked his tankard back, ale dribbling out of the sides of his mouth and onto his red shirt. The liquid drenched the fabric, making his well-toned body much more defined. At the next table, a girl with blonde hair and brown eyes actually swooned, making Gobbler, Smaug's sidekick, roll his eyes.

Gobbler was a stout man with a chin so large, most people steered clear of him. He had pudgy features, bad hair, and a gross case of acne. In short, he was Smaug's complete opposite. Whereas Smaug had been blessed with good genes, Gobbler had been blessed (or was the more appropriate term 'cursed'?) with ugliness.

"Relax, my good friend, for there are plenty of fish in the sea," said Gobbler, taking a cautious sip out of his own tankard. Smaug glared at him, but Gobbler merely raised one hand up, and waved the barmaid over. "Another of your fine drinks, my lass," he said.

She was pretty, with long, curly caramel-colored hair, and stormy blue eyes, but she ignored his flirting and went straight to Smaug.

"Might I interest you in another pint, sir?" she asked, her voice containing just the perfect amount of shyness and huskiness in it. Smaug took one look at her and smiled. It was a fox's grin, alluring and never to be trusted, but the barmaid took it to be a good sign and slipped a piece of paper into his hand. "I take it you know how to read addresses?" she said.

Smaug smiled and took a long drink before he answered.

"Expect me at ten."

She winked and walked away jauntily, her hips swaying a little too atrociously for a pub. Smaug obviously didn't mind. He liked it whenever the barmaid (whatever the hell her name was) flirted with him, especially in front of Gobbler, who had fancied her ever since her first day.

"Some guys get all the luck," he heard Gobbler mutter and he twisted around to see his 'friend's' sullen expression. "You can go. I have to...attend to other matters," Smaug said. Gobbler nearly dropped his drink in surprise. "What?" he spluttered. "You're willing to blow Rosemary off?"

Smaug stared at him.

"Did I stutter?"

Gobbler shook his head.

"Then, yes. I'm willing. She'll probably be too intoxicated to notice anyway. Just slip out at first light," advised Smaug, who had every intention of going back to Bag End and cricking Frodo's neck into half, lest Bilbo not want to marry him again.

"Are you sure?"

Smaug nodded, and in the light of the dingy pub, his face almost looked...reptilian. Dragon-like, even.

"If you do not stop asking me that question, I'll send somebody else to spend the night with-?"

"Rosemary."

"Yes, that's the one."

The two friends stayed quiet for a moment, Gobbler hardly believing his good luck, and Smaug running over the different ways one could kill a thirteen-year-old child without too much effort and having too big a mess to clean up. He was just about to state his opinion out loud when the pub's front door burst open, and in sprung little Frodo Baggins himself, looking like he had been through hell and back.

"Help! Please, somebody, help me!" he yelled.

All of the villagers froze for a minute, then they started to laugh.

"What's wrong, Frodo? Your uncle finally went bonkers at last?" one of the townsmen said, and Smaug turned to glare at him, silencing him at once. Nobody called his beloved 'bonkers' and got away with it. This man was going to go home with a few bruises tonight. And maybe a few broken bones, as well.

"He's not! And he never will go bonkers! Please, just listen!"

Frodo's blue eyes locked onto Smaug's own orbs, and the hunter raised a perfectly-threaded eyebrow as the teen made his way towards him. The minute Frodo reached him, he took hold of Smaug's lapels and shook him, which in itself was a big feat, considering the bulk of the hunter's body against Frodo's own.

"Get your hands off him!" the swooning girl at the next table said, but Smaug raised a hand, and the entire pub, including the girl, fell silent. "Would you mind releasing my shirt, Frodo?" the hunter requested in a calm, but steely tone. Frodo shook his head and stared at Smaug defiantly.

"Well, then, if you won't let me go, would you at least tell me _why _you are here?"

"Not until you promise to help me."

"How can I promise to help you if I don't know what it is you're talking about?"

"Just do it, you insufferable oaf!"

Everybody in the pub stiffened. "Why you little sh-" Gobbler began, but Smaug glared at him as well, and the ugly man leaned back into his seat once more. "Frodo. Realise me. _Now_," Smaug demanded. Frodo stared stubbornly into his eyes for a second longer before his hold on Smaug relaxed, his fingers audibly cracking as they were stretched once more.

"Do you promise to listen to me?" he asked.

His eyes were rimmed with red, like he had just stopped crying, and Smaug resisted the urge to laugh.

"I promise."

"It involves Uncle Bilbo, you see, so I hope you're sincere."

At the mention of his intended-to-be partner, Smaug stood up just a little bit straighter.

"What about Bilbo?"

Frodo grinned slyly, though to somebody who knew him better, it was forced.

"_That _got your attention. Now, listen carefully. We've only got a little time left."

And without another moment's hesitation, Frodo told his tale. When he had finished, everybody was simply staring at him with their mouths hanging open. All throughout, nobody had dared to interrupt the teen. All of them had been listening with the utmost attention, rapture, and delight. After all, who would've thought that Frodo Baggins, of all people, had such a vivid imagination?

"Frodo," Smaug said, barely concealing his fox-like grin. "Is this story true?"

The thirteen-year-old nodded. "Yes, yes! And do you believe me?" he prodded. Smaug nodded and put an arm around Frodo's shoulders. He then began to walk around, Frodo in tow, exchanging gleeful looks with the other villagers. The poor lad had clearly lost his mind, which only gave Smaug more reason to, well, do whatever he pleased with the boy without Bilbo getting mad.

"Of course, I do, young Master Baggins!"

Frodo's nose wrinkled.

"You do?"

"Yes, yes. Come now, and be on your way."

The crinkles on Frodo's brow deepened.

"Shouldn't there be a 'we' in that sentence somewhere?" he asked. Smaug shook his head. "Nope," he answered, popping the 'p'. "Just you."

Without further ado, he pushed Frodo out into the cold, making the poor teen land face-first in a pile of slushy mud. Overhead, the rain poured down in messy torrents, making Frodo's black-as-coal hair fall into his face even more. He shook it out of his eyes and dashed back to the door, where Smaug shut it in his face the minute he came too close.

"Open this door! Open this door!" Frodo demanded, pounding on the door with his fists. Already, the skin of his pinkies were starting to break, and soon, the pub's white door was a little stained with red blood. Frodo didn't mind the sting; it was the raucous laughter from the inside of the pub that hurt. Now, everybody thought he was mad, and he probably was, judging from the plan he'd developed.

"I was panicking. I was panicking," he told himself when he gave up trying to get Smaug to open the door. "I was panicking, and this was the first thing I thought of doing. Give me a break."

He pounded on the door one last time and turned around, his feet subconsciously taking him home to Bag End. His cloak slumped uselessly to one side, and it did very little to keep the bitter chill out. Frodo stuck his frozen hands underneath his armpits, trying his best to stay warm and keep his brain whirring for ideas.

Once he reached their house, he pushed the front door open, for it had been left unlocked in Bilbo's haste to look for him. He dragged himself to his Uncle's bedroom and collapsed on the bed, breathing in Bilbo's familiar scent, which mostly consisted of spices.

Rosemary. Oregano. Thyme. Basil. A hundred others Frodo couldn't identify.

_Uncle would've known them all_, he thought miserably.

And then, it all came crashing down on him: Bilbo was gone and nobody was going to help get him back.

Tears began to leak from Frodo's eyes and onto the duvet. He tried to stop the flow, to prevent the saltwater from washing the homey smell away, but he couldn't. The best he could do was to curl into the fetal position and cry himself out.

How could one day that was oh-so-full of promise and laughter turn into this?

That night, while as Bilbo Baggins fell asleep peacefully, Frodo Baggins wept, and when he finally crossed into unconsciousness, the taste of salt was on his lips and tear tracks were still etched on his cheeks, like thin streams of misery for having lost somebody that was so important to him.


	11. Chapter XI

**Recap: **Bilbo is repeatedly grated by Dwalin over dinner. Thorin, who _never _comes down for dinner, does the exact opposite and tells Bilbo all about the rules of his castle. A tired Bilbo, who is almost dead on his feet, dozes off while he is doing so and nearly gets an unexpected (not to mention, unwanted) facial, consisting of pea soup and mashed potatoes, only to be saved by a loud bolt of thunder. Thorin bites back the urge to facepalm. Meanwhile, Frodo Baggins begs for help in the village, and only gets Smaug's and the villager's mocking.

* * *

**CHAPTER 11:**

Bilbo awoke the next morning with his head throbbing painfully. All night long, the poor man had tossed and turned in his sleep, chased by unseen nightmares.

At least, to those who had an extra way of seeing him behind closed doors.

Bilbo blinked sleepily and stood up slowly. It took one, two, three shakes of his head before his vision finally cleared from the spots that came with morning head rush, and they did nothing to ease his slowly-building headache. He rubbed at his temples and moaned. Nothing like having a little pain to start your day.

"Frodo?" he called.

There was no response.

"Frodo?" he tried again, a little louder.

After three more calls of his beloved nephew's name and getting no response, Bilbo took his head out of his hands and was just about to use some of his choicest swear words, when he realized where he was.

Of course.

The large sheets. The smell of marble and precious metals. The coldness that lingered in the air, even if all of the windows were nailed shut.

Thorin's castle.

Everything came rushing back to Bilbo, then: Frodo, lost and alone somewhere he would never reach. Thorin, feral and scary and mysterious. Imprisonment for life, never to step out of the tall, gold gates that now seemed so dull, compared to his own rusty gate back home.

_Home_.

Where _was _home now, exactly? Here in Thorin's castle? Or in Bag End with Frodo in Hobbiton?

For lack of an answer, Bilbo burrowed back into his sheets and started to cry, wiping at his face ever-so-often to staunch the flow of his tears. Once he was sure that he was calm enough, he pulled his face out of one of the fluffy pillows that Bofur had been kind enough to provide last night, and dabbed his nose on his sleeve. The cottony garment was now soaked through, the stuffing sticking in the most oddest of ways to the pillowcase.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo whispered to no one in particular. "I'm just _so _upset, and I just want to go home." Bilbo sounded childish, even to his own ears. He didn't care. He sniffled into his sheets noisily and pulled himself out of bed, shuddering when his feet hit the tiles, their coldness leeching what little heat the thick blankets had managed to give him during the night.

As he bustled about inside the closets for something to wear, somebody knocked on his door.

The sound reverberated around the spacious bedroom, making Bilbo's ears roar with something akin to blood rush. "Who's there?" he asked in a reedy voice.

Nobody answered.

Resigned, he trudged over to the door and opened it, only to find himself face-to-face with nothingness. He looked to his right, to his left, and found nothing. Only when he looked down did he find _something_ There was a small pile of clothes, undergarments included, on the little step in front of his room. Everything looked to be his size, and Bilbo smiled at the person's thoughtfulness.

"Thank you," he said quietly. As if in response, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He ignored the feeling and merely brushed it off as something that came with the cold. But, at the back of his mind, beckoning to his subconscious, came the uneasy motion that he was being...watched.

As he stripped and walked towards the little in-built bathroom his room had, Bofur's story from last night came back to him.

_''Thorin is just a little...protective of that particular place, that's all. Everything he values is in there: his books, photographs he likes to look at on good days, the Arkenstone that also doubles as a magic mirror-Careful!''_

All of a sudden, the 'mysterious' clothes appearing on his little step weren't so mysterious. Thorin had been watching him all along. And to think _he _wanted some privacy! Bilbo's face flushed red, both from embarrassment and anger at having been caught at his most vulnerable, both physically and mentally.

"I'd like a little alone time, thanks," he muttered sarcastically. Almost immediately, the prickly-hair feeling vanished. Bilbo sighed in relief at having been left on his own for the meantime. He discarded the clothing he still had on onto the floor, and hopped into the tub, running himself a nice, hot bath to sooth his nerves. When he was finished, Bilbo changed into the spare set of clothes and picked his soiled ones off the floor, running his fingers almost absentmindedly over the embroidery he himself had sewn.

Smiling sadly to himself, his mind flashed back to the day Frodo had tried his hand at sewing, only to have his own fingers sewn together themselves, sending a frightened Bilbo into a panic and calling the town medic at once. After that incident, Frodo had never gone near a needle or anything related to sewing, knitting, or embroidering ever again.

"Oh, how I miss you, my boy," Bilbo said sadly.

He folded the clothes in silence and dropped them into his bedside table's drawer. After tidying his bed up a little more, he walked out of the room in search of some breakfast.

Or was it a late lunch?

He couldn't tell. It was far too stormy outside to even distinguish what time it was, anymore. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shivered. So far, none of his new friends had reappeared and he wasn't in any mood to look into every room he passed to see if one of them were lodging in it.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of walking, he reached the dining room which led into the adjoining kitchen.

"Hello?" he asked uncertainly as he poked his head into the kitchen doors.

Empty.

"What am I going to do now?" he mused to himself as he walked away, stomach still grumbling from having not eaten anything at all. Eventually, Bilbo merely let his feet take him to wherever they would take him. As always, he didn't make a sound, a quality that everybody living in Hobbiton prized. Even Frodo, who had came to Hobbiton with loud banging footsteps, was almost as good as Bilbo now.

_Frodo._

Bilbo shook his head to shake his last memory of Frodo's scared face from his mind. It just wouldn't do to think about such things right now. Instead, he let himself focus on the architecture, his inner Baggins side taking over as he oohed and aahed over the tapestries and priceless items he passed in the corridors. Occasionally, he would click his tongue and say, "I wonder how Fili and Kili haven't broken that yet" before he went on his way, laughing at his own little joke.

After about an hour or so of this, he stopped.

He hadn't been paying attention to where he had been going. Nor had he remembered _how _in the world he had managed to end up in this particular part of the castle. Bilbo started to fret, wringing his hands together and pushing his fingers through his already-messy russet curls. Then, as if waking from a dream, he noticed the pitch black door beside him for the first time.

Well, it wasn't _exactly _pitch black.

There were markings etched onto the door, and upon closer inspection, they were golden vines, curling every which way Bilbo looked. Some were intricate and seemed to form patterns, and some were loners, merely ending in a little twirl with a leaf at the end. For a moment, Bilbo stood in front of it, transfixed by the simplicity yet certain grandeur of it.

He stepped forward, finger outstretched to touch a part of the door, just to make sure that the realistic markings _weren't _realistic. The tip of his index finger landed on a golden leaf, swaying in an imaginary wind.

_If it were real_, Bilbo thought bitterly, _it would've been unattached to it's bough by now, free as a bird. Unlike me._

Bilbo's hand traced downwards, fingers searching for the knob or the lever that would open it. To his surprise, there wasn't any. Instead, the wood gave way underneath his light touch, and swung open, creaking quietly on it's hinges as it went.

It was dark inside, and Bilbo had to squint to even make out the faintest of outlines.

"It wouldn't hurt to explore, would it?" he asked himself, taking a step into the room. Then another. And another. And another. He stopped when pain erupted in his left foot.

"Damn!" he swore, lifting the injured limb off the floor and inspecting it. It was far too dark to see _what _it was, but Bilbo knew enough to know that the thing had punctured his foot. He cursed under his breath and pulled it out, hissing at the slight pain that came with it. He tossed it to the side and ripped part of his undershirt off, swearing all the while.

"They gave you shoes, didn't they?" he muttered. "Why on earth didn't you wear them?"

When he was done, he put his foot back onto the floor and tested it. It hurt, but it didn't give way whenever Bilbo applied pressure to it. Bilbo took that as a good sign and moved further into the room, much more careful now that he had an injury to think about. As he walked, his eyes adjusted, making him see the room much more better.

It was in shambles, broken bits of pottery and glass scattered all over the floor. One of them was bloody, and Bilbo bet his brass buttons that it was the offending piece that had stuck into his foot. Some of the debris littering the floor weren't useless, though. Some looked like they had once been priceless, what with the way some of the figurines sparkled whenever Bilbo turned his head in the right direction.

"Lobelia would probably have an aneurysm, seeing all of this gold go to waste," he mumbled to himself as he saw yet another precious statuette. It seemed to be modeled after a mermaid, her long blonde hair tumbling down her back. Her hands were raised to her hair, fixing the long strands though there didn't seem to be one out of place. The mermaid's tail swished through invisible water, and Bilbo, out of curiosity, picked it up and put it in his pocket to inspect later.

"I'll just return it...sometime later. I'm going to be here all my life, after all," Bilbo reassured himself.

It was lighter than he expected, though, and he soon forgot about it.

He mucked around the room some more, poking this and that with his foot. So, it came as a complete surprise to him when the door suddenly shut, as if a playful gust of wind had passed by and merely decided to slam it closed. Disoriented, Bilbo backed up, hands splayed out, feeling around in the darkness. He jerked backwards when his fingers met something cold, twisting around mid-step to see what it was.

"Oh, it's just a-_woah_."_  
_

'Woah', indeed, for his fingers had touched the Arkenstone's glass globe, making the cover slip and letting the pure, white light shine through. He pulled the fabric off completely, squinting slightly at the sudden burst of light from the multi-faceted jewel. Eventually, he started to feel warm, relentless of the cold rain still pouring outside and the little amount of rain-spray that came in through the balcony's slitted but closed windows.

"It's so beautiful," he gasped, almost as if in a trance. Slowly, he started to lift the glass globe upwards, setting it aside and staring in wonder at the still-suspended jewel. He took it into his hands and shuddered, the warmth filling him from his head to his toes. Suddenly, Bilbo wanted nothing more than to stay in the room forever, if only it meant being _this _close to the precious stone in his hands for as long as he liked. The minute the thought popped into his head, however, something in the darkness snarled and the Arkenstone was snatched out of his hands, blinding him momentarily.

"_What _are you doing in here?" a voice said quietly.

_Too _quietly. Bilbo realized, with a rush of horror, that only one person sounded like that in the entire castle. One who could be both scary-calm and ferociously terrifying when it came to anger...

"Thorin! Oh, my god! I am _so _sorry. I was lost and I didn't even know that I was here in the West Wing," Bilbo apologized profusely, feeling more and more like a dunderhead as the seconds ticked by.

The black door. The elegant paint. The smashed pottery. The Arkenstone.

Couldn't he have just saw the signs and ran out of there while he still could have?

_Too late for that now_, a little voice inside his head said.

"Why did you come here?" Thorin asked, his voice slowly turning colder, like chips of sharp shards of ice. Bilbo could almost feel the sting. His mind went white, almost like a sheet of blank cream paper. His insides churned uncomfortably, and Bilbo was suddenly glad that he hadn't had anything for breakfast. Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, to say something (_anything!_), but he could only stand there and close it again, gaping like a fish out of water.

"I'm-I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I warned you to **NEVER COME HERE**!" Thorin boomed, smashing the little table that had been situated next to the Arkenstone's glass case. One of the pieces hit Bilbo on the arm, slicing a long, deep line into the sleeve of shirt and damaging the skin below. Bilbo barely felt the sting; instead, he concentrated on getting out of the room alive. Preferably with all of his limbs still intact and usable without any missing fingers.

"Please, Thorin," Bilbo placated. "I never meant any harm. I was only...curious."

The humble confession only seemed to anger the King further.

"**DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT YOU COULD HAVE DONE**?" he said, forcing Bilbo to take a step backwards. Liquid fear seemed to replace all of the blood in his veins, making the hairs on his arms and on the back of his nape stand straight up. His heart was hammering way too fast for his liking, and already, he could feel bits of glass and pottery cutting into the soft skin of his feet, the ones on his left feet pushing their way past the wad of bandages he'd wrapped it in.

_Smash!_

Bilbo ducked just in time to avoid an aspidistra pot that had been thrown at his head, the vase's shattered remains joining the thick cluster of debris on the floor. He cowered in fear, scared of what else Thorin could possibly do.

"Please...stop...," Bilbo pleaded, blinking rapidly to stop the tears that were threatening to leak out. His green eyes were huge with now, and Thorin could see that his cheeks were rapidly becoming flushed: a sure sign of how scared Bilbo was of him now. And he hated it; hated the fact that he was always feared and unloved. But there was nothing he could do. He and the Beast were one now. And when the Beast's animal urges had been tapped into, it was all Thorin could do to hold onto his sanity.

"Get out!" bellowed Thorin.

Bilbo squeaked and turned on his heels, slipping once or twice on the broken glass on the floor. He tripped over a fallen coffee table, cutting his hands in the process. He ran for the door like a bat freed from hell, barely reaching it before Thorin threw another pot at his head, plant included this time. Soil rained down on Bilbo, tangling in his hair and getting into his mouth. He spat it out and wiped his tongue on his sleeve, doing very little to decrease the taste of bitterness in his mouth.

"**OUT!**" Thorin roared.

Without another glance at the room behind him, Bilbo fled down the hall, his directions suddenly becoming as clear as crystal. The tiled floors were a relief to his stinging feet, cooling the cuts and somehow helping to ease the pain.

_Oh, look, Thorin! I've bled over your shining marble floors_, he thought distractedly, leaving little drops of blood behind him as he ran. On the way to the main entrance hall, Bilbo passed a still sleepy-looking Fili and Kili, the both of which were still in their pajamas: royal blue and gold for the former, black and forest green for the latter. Their hair was in shambles, Kili's sticking up in every direction, thanks to the fact that it wasn't held back in it's usual half-ponytail.

"Where are you going?" he said in an alarmed tone. "You're not leaving, are you? You've only been here for one day!"

Bilbo didn't stop. But, Bilbo Baggins was anything but rude, so he merely called, "Promise or no promise, I can't stay here!" over his shoulder, grabbing his cloak from a nearby coat-hanger as he went. He thrust it over his shoulders and pulled the heavy oak doors open, adrenaline giving him strength to do so. Ignoring Fili and Kili's protests, he shouldered out into the rain and found the stables, blinking rainwater out of his eyes the entire time.

Myrtle instantly nickered, recognizing her master at once.

"Hey, girl. I'll get you a snack later. For now, we have to get out of here," he said insistently. The horse nodded as if she understood, big brown eyes watching Bilbo as he bustled around the stable, grabbing a spur here and a saddle there. Finally, when Myrtle was saddled and ready, he hopped on and pulled his hood over his eyes, not even caring that his feet were full-on bleeding.

All he cared about was getting out of there.

Fast.

And as he rode out of the gate, Bilbo heard Thorin's roars, high up in the West Wing. He nearly turned back, for the sounds were that of a wounded animal, low and gut-wrenching. But, his mind flew back to the West Wing Incident, as he now branded it, and his heart turned back into stone. He whipped around and spurred Myrtle forwards, trying his best to ignore the stinging pain he felt not only in his feet and arms, but in his heart as well.


	12. Chapter XII

**Recap: **Bilbo wakes up in Thorin's castle for the first time. After a slight breakdown and a somewhat sarcastic encounter with the King, via Thorin's Arkenstone, he does his early morning routine and sets off to find two things: his friends and a spot of breakfast. He doesn't find either, though, and Bilbo does another exploration trip of the castle instead. Unknowingly, he finds one of the West Wing's many entrances and goes in, finding the Arkenstone after almost sending it's case, jewel included, crashing to the ground. Thorin catches him gazing at it and flies into a rage, accidentally wounding Bilbo on the arm in the process. A terrified Bilbo runs out of the room, into the stables, and onto Myrtle's back, his ears still ringing with Thorin's frustrated roars.

* * *

**CHAPTER 12:**

"Stupid, stupid! **ARRGGH**!"

In his frustration, Thorin Oakenshield grabbed the object nearest to him (an ornate-looking piece of jewelry) and threw it out of the newly-opened windows, his ears prickling when he heard the satisfying _clunk! _of dull gold on hard cobblestones. The King roared, falling down on all fours and letting his beastly side take over. Just like he had done on so many occasions before. Only this time, he had _actually _hurt somebody. On purpose. And he hadn't even apologized.

"He didn't give me time to do so," he snarled, pointing out his reason-No. His _excuse_, for having stooped so low as to hurt an innocent bystander. But, then again, Bilbo wasn't quite _that _innocent, now was he? What had he been doing in the West Wing, especially after strict orders not to do so? Why had he been holding the Arkenstone? And _why_, for the love of all things that glittered, had he been staring at it as if he wanted to..._devour _it?

_Jewel lust_, a voice in his head answered.

For a moment, Thorin believed it. But, he thought back to Bilbo's selflessness, his gentle sarcasm, and endearing way of bonding with his nephews, even if he himself didn't have the patience to do so anymore. No. Bilbo hadn't been under a spell of jewel lust. He had simply been entranced by the Arkenstone's beauty, just like his nephews and the rest of the staff had been. Shame somewhat coursed through him, and Thorin felt that if he still had his old complexion, his cheeks would've been red-hot by now.

"Stupid, stupid," he repeated.

An idea popped into his head.

Immediately, his hand went to the little pocket in his cloak where he sometimes kept the Arkenstone. He drew the jewel out, his breath still hitching whenever he laid his eyes on the hard, but warm surface. It seemed to hum to life at it's master's touch, almost like a miniature, cold heart. Thorin ignored it and cleared his throat. The quicker the Arkenstone fulfilled his request, the better.

"Show me Bilbo Baggins."

The Heart of the Mountain, as Lady Galadriel had called it, did nothing.

"Please," he added as an afterthought.

Immediately, the Arkenstone seemed to glow brighter, it's multifaceted surface shimmering and bursting with pure, white light. Thorin averted his eyes, but only for a minute, used to this sort of thing occurring whenever he watched the world that lay outside his castle walls for pleasure. After a moment or two, the Arkenstone cleared, giving Thorin a full replay of Bilbo's actions: running into the stables, saddling Myrtle and taking off in a blur of brown and russet, and finally, picking their way through the woods.

Thorin shook the Arkenstone lightly, causing the jewel to zoom in on Bilbo's face.

The Beast King's heart lurched. Bilbo seemed to be in pain, his handsome features contorted into something Thorin had only seen once: when he had slashed a large wound into the other man's arm. He ignored the prickly voices of regret and guilt that were boring into his ears and watched Bilbo with much more force than necessary. Anything at all to escape his conscience's keening voice.

"Come on, Myrtle," he seemed to be saying. "A little more, little more. That's it, that's it."

There were nicks and bruises all over Bilbo's face, and his usually-ordered curls were in a tangled heap of knots, a sure sign of how many times Bilbo had ran his fingers through it. _And Bilbo only does that habit of his whenever he's frustrated_, thought Thorin. He shook his head; he had watched Bilbo for far too long and far too often for his own tastes. In fact, the Arkenstone hadn't even been brought out of it's case until yesterday. That was when Bilbo had arrived and Thorin had formed a liking to him.

_Pathetic._

Thorin didn't listen this voice as well and went back to listening eagerly to Bilbo's voice, looking for signs that he was alright and that the only wounds he'd sustained were the ones on his arms and feet. He exhaled heavily when further observing proved him right: Bilbo was whole, save for a few gashes. He would make it back alive to the village and (probably) forget all about him, Kili, Fili, and the rest. Not to mention the stone that had started their dispute in the first place.

_My face isn't exactly the type of face one would forget_, he thought bitterly.

Resigned, he tossed the jewel onto the desk, where the moving pictures faded and were replaced with nothing but glassy surface once more. Then, Thorin started to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. When he grew tired of this, he stopped in the middle of the room, biting his lower lip with one pointy fang. "Should I go after him? Or should I merely let him be?" he wondered aloud to the room and the darkness it held.

No.

Not exactly darkness.

Thorin turned back to the Arkenstone, his brows furrowed when it started to hum on it's own accord. He strode back to the desk, picked it up, and nearly dropped it again: it had turned white-hot. He prodded it with one, long claw and adjusted it a bit so that his eyes could see the vision within from all directions. What he saw next nearly made his stone-cold heart skip a beat: Bilbo was fending off at least four Wargs, each larger than the last. All of them had probably smelled the blood that Bilbo had been dripping behind, attracting their foul noses and rumbling their empty stomachs.

_Fool_, Thorin thought. _Couldn't he at least have had it wrapped up before he left?_

Even as he watched, Bilbo fell off Myrtle, his head thumping against something that the Arkenstone's vantage point could not see. The chestnut brown horse nickered wildly, her paws rearing skywards as one of the Wargs slashed at her flank. Thorin saw Bilbo roll to the left, for fear that he would get trampled by Myrtle's skittish hooves. Saw Bilbo grab a large stick and beat the hell out of one of the monsters, the beast slumping unconscious to the ground.

Thorin felt a brief flicker of pride, then fear replaced it once more as one of the Wargs launched itself at Bilbo, knocking him down. He let the Arkenstone fall back to the desk with a clatter, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. He needed to save his...friend. Yes, that was what he needed to do. For, if Bilbo died, it would be another person whose blood was on his hands. Dis had already been one of them, even though tons of people had told him that her death hadn't been his fault.

With another deafening roar, Thorin fell down on all fours once more, and bounded towards the balcony. He launched himself off the railing easily and touched down on the cobblestone pavement below softly, his paws taking the brunt of the impact. He ignored the smarting feeling and started to run the length of the courtyard, his strides quick and precise.

As he ran, thoughts bounced around like ping-pong balls inside his brain.

_What if I don't reach him in time? What will I see when I get there? Will he forgive me if I save him? Will _I _find the courage, not to mention, the ability to lower my pride, to _actually _apologize? Will Oin be able to heal him if, Mahal forbid, he got injured? Will there be enough of him to bury when I don't reach him in time and he is shredded to pieces?_

At the last one, Thorin growled, as if to erase it from his mind.

_No_, he thought determinedly. _I'll reach him in time. I _have _to._

With that particular goal in mind, Thorin gave himself one last burst of speed and tried his best to find the spot the Arkenstone had shown him, hoping against hope that Bilbo would still be (mercifully) alive by the time he reached him.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins was, without a smallest hint of doubt, a _terrible _fighter.

Sure, he had gotten into a small amount of scrapes growing up, but back then, it had been _people _he were contending with. Not man-sized Wargs that had sharp, pointy canines and claws that could rake you in half if they put their mind to it.

"Back! I said, _back!_" he said, pounding one of them on the nose with a large stick he had found lying on the ground. His green eyes darted to where Myrtle stood, fending off two more Wargs with her hooves, her sides and flank bleeding. Bilbo felt his stomach lurch; he'd never really liked the sight of blood, let alone the stench of it. He gagged, bile rapidly filling his mouth. He gulped it all down, ignoring the queasiness as the foul liquids slid back down his throat.

Thanks to his distraction, a lone Warg caught an opening in his stance, and charged, knocking him to the ground. The Warg bit at him. Thankfully, the wind chose that moment to change direction, for his cloak, which had been pinned under Bilbo, flapped upwards and tangled into the Warg's teeth instead. The monster growled, biting it off and spitting the thick fabric out of it's mouth. It growled, breathing decay and blood into Bilbo's face. He whimpered, knowing fully well that even though he screamed, the Warg would finish him off and that would be the end of him.

Delirious, Bilbo stared into the beast's eyes.

They were deep blue. A sight that Bilbo had only seen on another living being before.

_Thorin_.

"Oh, if only you were here now," he muttered, though he didn't quite know _why_. And yet, he simultaneously wished-and didn't wish-that Thorin was watching him at that very instant through the Arkenstone. That way, somebody would at least witness his embarrassing demise. Somebody would know Frodo and (hopefully) go to him and tell him that Bilbo was dead, that there was no point in waiting for his Uncle to come home.

A fast parade of jumbled thoughts entered his brain as he waited for the beast to deal the final blow. They were mostly crazy, morphing shapes that didn't hold any meaning for him, but Bilbo accepted them. Anything to put his mind off the fact that he was about to die.

Frodo arriving at Bag End looking small and forlorn. Bag End itself, cozy and _home_. Erebor Castle, the turrets tall and menacing, the black stone crumbling a little but otherwise perfect. It's inhabitants: Bofur, with his crazy hat and long, braided beard; Bifur, a little insane but lovable; Ori, book-loving and adorable; Kili and Fili, bouncing up and down the walls with manic energy, their long hair flapping out like short wings behind them; Oin, Gloin, Dwalin and Balin, their faces placid, but looking at him with eyes that, although varied in color, (dark brown for Oin, light blue for Gloin and Dwalin, and chocolate for Balin) all radiated one thing: kindness; Dori and Nori, bickering over whose turn it was to give Ori a bath; and finally, the master of the castle himself: Thorin Oakenshield. His face lingered in Bilbo's face for a moment longer than necessary, his grey-blue eyes piercing Bilbo's, just as they had on last night when their gazes had met and Bilbo had felt shivers running up and down his body at it's intensity.

Manic laughter sprung forth from Bilbo's lips, a sure sign that he was going bonkers. The Warg stopped growling for a minute, and looked at him instead like he were crazy. Maybe he were and maybe he weren't. He wouldn't live long enough to find out, anyway.

With a sigh of resignation, he closed his eyes, just as the Warg lifted it's paw.

The blow didn't come, though, and Bilbo felt the monster's heavy weight roll off his chest.

Green eyes flew open, and he turned around to see why. One corner of his mouth lifted up in a nutty smile: his wishes had just been answered.

"Get behind me!" Thorin roared. Bilbo nodded and did as he asked, fingers curling around the edge of Thorin's cape. And if Thorin noticed the way Bilbo was pressing himself into him, he didn't make any mention of it. The four Wargs, including the one that Bilbo had knocked to unconsciousness, circled them, growling and baring their own fangs.

Thorin snarled at each one of them in turn before he lunged, nearly taking Bilbo with him.

Bilbo leaped to the side, yelping as one of the Warg's paws caught him on the leg. He cried out, though nobody paid him any heed, since the monster's attentions were completely fixated on Thorin. Bilbo could only watch in slowly-elating terror as Thorin whirled and slashed, hitting the beasts wherever he could hit them: face, between the eyes, legs, stomach, private areas...

"RAH!" Thorin growled, lifting a Warg over his head and throwing it into one of the nearby trees. Overhead, rain and thunder continued to crackle, cold drops pelting Bilbo's small form. As slowly as possible, he started to crawl towards Myrtle, dragging his injured leg behind him. His clawed arm still stung, but he mostly ignored it. Right now, his mind was set on reaching Myrtle, who had been lying on her side ever since...he didn't exactly know.

He patted her soft nose when he came close enough, trying not to think about the way her breathing was slowing down, sputtering, losing life as the seconds ticked by.

"I'm sorry," said Bilbo, not quite knowing what _exactly _to say to a dying horse who had gone down protecting her master. Protecting _him. _But, then again, that was what people like him said whenever there was nothing else to be done: apologize and pray that it would even everything out. The horse nickered softly, nudging her head into his palm. Her mouth seemed to curl up into a smile, a melancholy one at that. Bilbo felt tears start to leak out of the corners of his eyes. He didn't even try to blink them back. He merely let them mix in with the sweet rain that had been making their way down his cheeks for the past thirty minutes.

"Bilbo?" he heard a voice say behind him. It was soft and gentle and...Bilbo knew whose voice it was. He would probably even recognize it in his sleep.

He turned around softly, quite aware that Myrtle's breathing had ceased at last.

"What?" asked Bilbo. His tone was cold and sharp, like the edge of a steel knife. He regretted it at once when his eyes took in Thorin's condition: he had long, ragged scratches all over his face, blood dripping from most parts of his furry body. All four Wargs were lying unconscious around him, and Bilbo couldn't help but be a tiny bit impressed. "Nothing. I was merely going to ask you if you were alright," Thorin replied. His voice was back to it's normal condescending tone, and Bilbo wanted nothing more than to pummel his face with his fists.

"As you can see, my arm, leg, and feet are bleeding, my horse is dead, and I'm hundreds of miles away from the only family I have left, not to mention a prisoner in a brooding..._beast's _castle. Will I be alright? Huh? Huh?"

Thorin opened his mouth to answer something scathing and biting, but Bilbo had already turned back to Myrtle's dead carcass. "I'll carry her back to the castle," Thorin offered. "No need. If you do, the other Wargs will just smell the blood and attack your home. I don't want to be the cause of Fili and Kili's deaths," Bilbo said. His tone was still sarcastic, and all he wanted was to see Bag End, burrow underneath one of it's fine rooms' beds, and never emerge.

Before he could fantasize some more, however, something heavy dropped to the ground behind him. He whipped around and let his mouth fall slack: Thorin had collapsed, Bilbo's eyes darting to his face just in time to see that his eyes had rolled back into his head, their gray-blue irises catching Bilbo's green ones just before they disappeared.

"Oh, _shit_," Bilbo muttered. Then, he covered his mouth. It wasn't like him to curse, and over such a trivial matter at that. He sighed and walked over to where Thorin lay, prodding him gently with the toe of his foot.

_He looks much more better when he doesn't frown_, Bilbo thought.

He grabbed Thorin's hand and pressed two fingers to the curve of Thorin's wrist, feeling for a pulse. Thankfully, there was one, though it didn't seem quite stable. He bit his lip thoughtfully. How on earth would he manage to carry Thorin all the way back to Erebor Castle? He was far too big, not to mention heavy, and lugging him along would most definitely be a trial. A hard one, at that.

But, then again, the Beast King had saved his life. Which brought him to another question: _why _did he save Bilbo?

"Maybe he does have a good heart, after all," Bilbo mused, running his fingers over the thick black fur that grew all over Thorin's body. With another resigned sigh, he slapped as much sense into the King as he could. Slowly, Thorin stirred, the gray-blue irises making another much welcomed reappearance once more.

"Wake up," said Bilbo. He tried to make his tone as soft and caring as possible. Not to mention, civil. He was still in a dangerous predicament after all. A little too close to Thorin's long claws for comfort. But, Bilbo Baggins was good and determined, especially when people saving his life were involved. And so, he began his short (but still long to him) journey back to Erebor Castle, the smell of blood and dead things fresh in the air.

* * *

For what seemed like the nth time that day, Ori covered his ears and cowered behind Dwalin, who merely gave him a raised-eyebrow look. Ori merely shrugged and only peeked out when he was sure that King Thorin wouldn't lash out at him again.

"My apologies, sir," he began, washcloth in hand, "but this is the only way to prevent infection."

They were in the King's other bedroom. The one he had used when he was still...human. Not what he was right now. Still, the scent of royalty, jewels, and gold clung to the room, almost as if it were still being used regularly everyday. And for that, Thorin was grateful. It distracted him well enough from the pain of having some stinky ointment applied to his wounds. Not to mention having his right eye iced every few seconds, courtesy of a disapproving Dwalin.

"Oh, I'm afraid we're all out of paste for your wounds, sire," came Ori's voice again.

Thorin quietly praised whatever deity was listening.

"I'll be off for a minute. I'll just ask Oin if we have some more."

He sighed and rolled his eyes; it had been too good to be true.

So lost was he in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice that he and Dwalin were alone until they were, the door clicking softly shut behind Ori as the young scribe set off to search for more medicine. The massive guardsman shifted uncomfortably, switching his warhammer to his right hand. His eyes wouldn't meet Thorin's, and the King felt another wave of guilt wash over him.

_'Heck, you even managed to hurt Dwalin's feelings. Your insensitive _best friend _who wouldn't even care if me and Fili called him all the foul names in the world.'_

That was Kili's voice. Then came Fili's:

_'We're sorry, Uncle. But, it's just true. Please, try to talk to Dwalin. He misses you, the big lug. And even though he tries to deny it, we can see the hurt in his eyes whenever we try to bring you up.'_

"I'm sorry," he suddenly spit out.

"Hmmf?" Dwalin muttered.

"I'm. Sorry," Thorin said, much more slowly than the last. "For ignoring you. For shutting you all out. I was...terrified of what I had become, and knew that if I could hate myself that much, you would, too. And I was scared to face all of you in the months that followed because, well, I didn't want to hear your rejections. But, when you didn't, it had the same effect, anyway. I was a fool for having rejected your friendship for so long, and I'm sorry. Will you please forgive me?"

Huh.

That hadn't been what Dwalin had been expecting. Thorin wasn't a man of a lot of words, and this little speech he had put together was far more precious than any book he had ever read (not that he had read many, but there you go).

"It's alright. I forgave you a long time ago," he muttered, eyes still not quite meeting Thorin's. Thorin didn't want him to, anyway, for fear of seeing hatred and pain. "That's what best friends do, right? Forgive each other, even though whatever the other did was quite painful."

Without another word, he stood up and gave Thorin a curt nod. Then, he turned around swiftly and strode to the door, eyes prickling furiously. Before he went out, though, he whipped around again and faced Thorin. His eyes were sort of wet, almost as if he were crying.

_But, that's impossible,_ Thorin thought uneasily, somewhat close to tears himself. _Dwalin never cries. Ever._

"I'm sorry, too," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Thorin nodded, for his tongue seemed to grow leaden all of a sudden, and his brain had ceased the ability to form words. Dwalin's lips curled up into his equivalent of a smile, and Thorin suddenly felt hopeful that maybe, just maybe, their friendship was repairable yet.

* * *

"Nasty scrapes you've gotten, Master Baggins," Oin muttered as he applied a thick, green paste to Bilbo's arms, legs, and feet. "Well, those Wargs had some pretty nasty claws," deadpanned Bilbo. Oin smiled knowingly at him and spread more of the ointment on Bilbo's arm. It had sustained the deepest cut, and Bilbo wasn't quite sure if his arm would still be as flawless as it had been before.

"Is it going to scar?" he asked in a hesitant voice.

Oin looked up from his mumbling and inspected the wounds for a moment.

"This one on your arm, yes," he said, tapping the injured area. "But, the ones on your feet and legs won't. They're too shallow." Bilbo sighed and blew a tuft of stubborn russet curls out of his eyes. Shuddering, he huddled closer to the fire, wanting to leech off as much heat as possible from the flames. Oin noticed and grabbed an extra blanket from the towering pile next to Bilbo's feet. He wrapped the thick quilt around the shivering man's shoulders and tucked the ends snugly underneath Bilbo's chin.

"There we go, sir. All done," he said. Bilbo, who had always been quite the gentleman, thanked him profusely, making the old medic blush right up to the tips of his ears. "You're most welcome," he muttered, still flushed in the face. Bilbo laughed. He was just about to tease him further when the door to his room opened, bringing a slightly cold breeze with it.

Oin turned around, a thunderous look on his face.

"Ori! Close that door at once. As you can see, Master Baggins is quite ill and needs _warmth_," he said. Ori flushed pink and shut the door as he was instructed to do. Bilbo was again reminded of how much he saw Frodo in Ori, what with their small age difference and same, pleading eyes, though the former's were blue and the latter's were dark brown.

"Sorry, Master Oin, but I'm afraid I need some more of that gloop you gave me earlier," he said in a quiet voice. Bilbo smiled all friendly-like at the scribe, trying to assure him that he wasn't a bother, and that Bilbo didn't mind the little chill that had come with his entrance. "Oh, was that all? Well, then, here we go," said Oin, who had resorted to digging around in the doctor's pouch that he always carried with him.

While Oin fumbled inside the pouch, Bilbo motioned Ori over to his bedside.

The twelve-year-old approached cautiously, eyebrows raised in a questioning manner.

"Yes, sir?" he said. Bilbo shook his head. "Please. Call me Bilbo." When Ori nodded to show that he had understood, Bilbo went on. "I've got a question for you. How is Thorin?" The scribe shrugged. "He's alright, s-Bilbo. Just a few wounds here and there, but he's in a far more better condition than you."

Bilbo laughed, then stopped when it turned into a cough. Oin was on him at once.

"Aah, your fever's spiked in the last few minutes. I suggest you lie down, Master Baggins."

With a nod of his slowly-turning heavy head, Bilbo did as he was asked and laid down. Meanwhile, Oin bustled about, looking for a usable thermometer that could go into Bilbo's mouth.

"No, not that one, Oin. Bifur used it the other week, and you know that he put it into the wrong hole, if you follow me," Bilbo heard Ori whisper conspiratorially. He snickered a little and shuffled further into his pillows, enjoying the hazy scent of various scents and herbs mixing in the air. Bilbo yawned, the exhaustion of the day, both physically and emotionally, had started to get to him, and the cloud of sleepiness that hung over the room did nothing to help.

"Oin?" he murmured.

"Yes?"

"Would it be bad if I dozed for a little while? I'm awfully tired."

The medic smiled at him. For a brief moment, Bilbo was reminded of his own kindly grandfather, and how he would cook black bean soup for Bilbo whenever he got sick in his earlier years. "Of course, lad. Go on, tuck your feet up. I'll just check your temperature later."

Bilbo smiled and nodded sleepily, another yawn sliding from his lips.

* * *

If it weren't for Thorin's screaming (his room was situated a couple of rooms down from Bilbo's), the latter would probably never have woken.

Bilbo Baggins roused groggily, his eyes still falling shut on their own accord. As far as he was concerned, waking somebody up at - he chanced a quick glance at the clock hanging above the fireplace - 11:00 P.M. Only when he did listen intently did he notice the fact that Thorin was indeed keening like a cat, and that it sounded like he was in pain.

He mulled over his two options:

**Option A: **Ignore Thorin completely by stuffing at least two of his fluffy pillows underneath the crack in the door, bury himself inside the sheets, and _not_ wake up until needed, 'needed' meaning breakfast time or lunch.

**Option B: **Get out of bed, find out what Thorin is wailing about, and apologize profusely.

Bilbo ran his fingers through his hair. To his surprise, it wasn't as matted as before. Oin had probably brushed it out while he had slept. _May the Valar bless Oin_, thought Bilbo, relieved at the fact that he didn't have to take a shower when it was so cold. Slowly, he sat up, careful not to jostle the bandages that had been firmly wrapped around his arms and legs._  
_

Sliding his injured feet into the fuzzy slippers that the staff had provided, Bilbo slipped out of his room, putting his jacket around his shoulders as he went. When he finally came to Thorin's door, Bilbo regretted making his choice at once. What would he say after all? To a king, at that!

_I'd tell him I'm sorry,_ Bilbo thought. And as soon as his mind made up, he rapped shortly on the door. Bilbo cleared his throat once before he spoke.

"Thorin? Can I come in?"

There was no reply.

He was just about to turn away when he heard a gruff "Sure" come from inside. He smiled curtly to himself and pushed the door's lever down, letting himself in. The sight inside was _truly _one to behold: Thorin was lying on the floor, nearly writhing in pain. But Bilbo, softhearted Bilbo whose weakness lay in children's puppy-dog eyes and babies' cries, couldn't find it in himself to laugh.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly. "Do I _look _like I'm alright?" Thorin snapped. Then, he seemed to realize who it was that had spoken, and looked up to confirm his guess. "Oh. It's you. Help me up, will you?" he requested gruffly. Bilbo, who was by now slowly-but-surely getting used to the Beast King's rudeness, sighed and crossed into the center of the room.

He gasped when he saw the little spots of blood that had erupted all over Thorin's body, a sure sign that the King had been struggling for long.

"Oh! Couldn't anybody have come and helped you?" he asked, putting one of Thorin's arms around his shoulders. "All of them sleep heavily at night," answered Thorin. Bilbo grunted under his rough weight, knees buckling as he tried to support both his and Thorin's body mass. Luckily, Thorin's bed was only a short distance away, and he managed to haul Thorin into it before he collapsed into the nearby sofa seat.

"What are you even eating?" he groaned. "Food," answered Thorin condescendingly. Bilbo glared at him for five whole seconds before he remembered that Thorin's bandages needed changing. He stood up and poked around in the dresser before he finally found a spare jar of pain ointment and clean linen sheets to use. Carefully, he balanced them on a tray before he turned back to a waiting Thorin, whose expression had taken on a look of curiosity.

"For your wounds. They've reopened," said Bilbo.

Thorin looked down; his eyes bulged, as if he'd only realized that his wounds were fresh and bleeding again, despite Oin's ministrations.

"Oh."

Bilbo _tssk_ed fondly and set the things down on the dresser's flattest surface, considering the fact that it was shaped like a cresting wave. When this was done, he grabbed a small bowl, emptied it of it's contents (used water), and asked for Thorin's permission to enter the bathroom.

"Go right ahead," Thorin muttered, staring darkly ahead, his eyes focused on an unseen vantage point. Bilbo bit back his withering retort and did as he originally intended to do. As he filled the bowl, he noticed that the mirror that hung over the sink was broken, a thousand duplicate Bilbos staring right back at him. It was somewhat unsettling and sad at the same time; Bilbo understood why it was shattered: Thorin had probably smashed it after seeing what he had become.

A little piece of his anger towards the King dissipated. After all, he was starting to understand how Thorin must have felt after his transformation. He understood how it felt to be different, though on a different level. After all, everybody was eccentric in their own way. Some of them, like Bilbo, were just better at hiding it.* Sighing, he screwed the tap shut and walked out of the room, only to see Thorin still looking at something his eyes couldn't perceive.

"If you look any harder, I'm pretty sure the air would melt."

Thorin jumped a little, not quite used to quiet footsteps.

"Sorry. It's an old trait of mine, you know," Bilbo explained. Thorin only grunted in reply.

_Okay, _Bilbo thought, irritated. _So much for reaching out and starting all over again._

He strode over to the dresser, placed the bowl on the tray once more, and dipped a piece of linen into it while Thorin watched, stormy eyes intensely fixed on him. A long shiver ran down the length of Bilbo's back. Thankfully, Thorin only interpreted it as shuddering from the cold. Bilbo would hate for him to find out that the King was starting to have..._certain _effects on him.

_Shut up, _he told his errant brain. _Shut up and do as you're told._

Luckily, it did.

After making sure that the linen was thoroughly wet enough, Bilbo undid the soiled bandages around Thorin's waist and dabbed. Thorin hissed out loud, thrashing wildly as Bilbo tried to apply some sort of pressure to the bleeding wounds. Up close, they looked far more worse than they had in the woods. Bilbo fought back the urge to gag as the smell of blood started to invade his nostrils once more.

"Aaarrgh! That hurts!" Thorin whined.

Bilbo tried to bite his frustration back. The King definitely wasn't an easy patient to contend with, and he was starting to lose what little patience he had had at the beginning of his visit. He had half a mind to dent the pretty little ornament on Thorin's desk on his head, bonking him hard enough to put some sense back into him.

_Ornament...Why did that sound familiar?_

"Well, if you just held still, then maybe, it wouldn't hurt as much!" he bit back. Thorin glared at him, gray-blue eyes nearly bulging out of it's sockets. "Well, maybe if you hadn't run away, then maybe _this _wouldn't have happened," retorted Thorin.

_Well, two can play at this little blaming game of yours, Thorin._

"If you hadn't _frightened_, not to mention, _wounded,_ me, I wouldn't have run away!"

"Well, _you _shouldn't have been in the West Wing. I told you thousands and thousands of times over: it's forbidden! But, did you listen? Huh? **NO**!"

"Well, you should learn to _control your temper_," hissed Bilbo, glaring daggers at Thorin. The King looked affronted. Never before had he met somebody who could withstand him in a shouting match, let alone one that needed wits to respond quickly. At this point, green met gray-blue, and Bilbo could feel his anger start to melt all over again. He didn't let it all go, though. No, he let 'annoyance' stay behind while everything seeped out of him, like liquid dripping out of a canister.

The next time he spoke, his voice was quiet and much more gentler than before.

"Now, hold still. This might...sting a little."

He offered Thorin a small smile before he pressed the cloth to Thorin's abdomen, the latter hissing at the pain.

"Please, I don't want to hurt you more than I already have."

It came out much more intimate than Bilbo originally intended it to be, and both men flushed at the meaning it inflected. "I didn't mean it that way..." Bilbo began, but stopped when he saw the blood leave Thorin's cheeks at the meaning _this _sentence implied.

"Sorry. I seem to have the tendency to say all sorts of wrong things today," he apologized. For the first time since he'd arrived in Thorin's castle, Bilbo actually saw the King _smile. _"Well, at least someone else is experiencing the same things I am. Puts me out of my misery more."

It took Bilbo two whole minutes to comprehend that Thorin had made a joke. He laughed, though it came out sounding forced and odd-sounding. They settled into an awkward silence after that, the other avoiding the person in front of him's eyes. Thorin shuddered inwardly at the feeling of Bilbo's fingers running their way down his chest, relishing the sensation of them and committing it to his memory to relieve later.

"By the way," Bilbo said, his voice a spell that broke the silence, "thank you. For saving my life."

Thorin looked up and saw that Bilbo was staring at him, biting his lip worriedly. One of his eyebrows were raised, and he looked so god damn adorable that Thorin wanted nothing more than to snog him senseless right then and there. "You're welcome," he answered. They smiled at each other and Bilbo went back to his work. After that, the 'awkward' silence turned into a comfortable one, both of them relaxing palpably as the time went by.

Finally, Bilbo finished working on Thorin's wounds, everything bandaged and clean like they were supposed to be.

"There we go. All done," he said, clapping his hands together on the floor to rid them of unseen dust. He stood up, then, and something light tumbled out of his pocket.

_Oh, so that was what had been nagging me._

It was the pretty mermaid statuette he had found on the West Wing's floor, the one with the long golden hair._  
_

"Bilbo?" Thorin asked, curious as to why he had been stooping down. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just...remember me, you know, snooping around in the West Wing earlier?" said Bilbo quite guiltily. The both of them flushed. "Yes," Thorin answered. "I remember it quite well. Continue."

Bilbo gulped before he spoke. "Well, it's just...I found this," Here, he held up the statuette, "on the floor. I was so entranced by it that I picked it up and wanted to study it later, though...the opportunity never really came." He turned to look at the prone King, lying on the appropriately king-sized bed. There was a wry smile on his face, Thorin saw.

_He's teasing me. He's not mad!_

And Thorin's heart nearly leaped out of his chest, giving him another burst of courage. Before he could think too much about what he was going to do, he carefully leaned forward and grabbed Bilbo's outstretched hand. Slowly, he closed Bilbo's slender fingers around the figurine, lingering for a moment too long before he let go completely. If fingers could blush, Bilbo's probably would have.

"Keep it," he said, leaning back into the sheets. "Consider it as a...welcoming gift from me."

Bilbo scoffed, but it wasn't mocking or anything of the sort. "Only friends give each other welcoming gifts. Do _you _consider _me _as a friend?" he asked. Thorin internalized for a second before he found his voice and the right words to form his answer.

"Of course I do. You brought me back here to the castle, half-alive though you knew fully that you were injured as well. In a way, you saved my life as much as I saved yours. And don't friends don't do that for each other? Save each other's necks whenever they're in danger?"

Bilbo was speechless.

"Er...well...I wouldn't call it _saving..._"

"Yes. I think the more accurate term would be 'dragging'. I think it was your sort of therapy for me forcing you to stay here. After all, you practically thwacked me into every tree root and branch possible, even at angles I thought were impossible. In a way, we're sort of square."

The both of them laughed at Thorin's ridiculous statement. Bilbo stopped after a moment's notice to listen to Thorin's deep, breathy chuckles: they were like honey and syrup molded into one, though it's sweetness didn't make him drown. Instead, it made him want to hear more.

"I think I should go back to my room now," Bilbo said after a moment.

Thorin nearly cried out. Then, he remembered that they were still learning. That there would be plenty of time to get to know the man opposite him. With a little nod of respect, Bilbo strode across the room's length and put his hand on the lever. At the last minute, though, Thorin cried out.

"Bilbo, wait!"

The man his attention was currently fixated on turned around. "Yes?" There was a teasing smile on his lips, and for that, Thorin was glad.

"I have a question."

"Ask away."

"Well, you could've left while I was unconscious. Why _didn't _you?"

To his surprise, Bilbo merely shrugged and chuckled softly. "A promise is a promise, no matter whoever made up which end of the promise. And I, Master Oakenshield, as you will soon find out, am a man of my word. It wouldn't do for me to break it now, would I? And besides, if I had, who would be here to help you get back into your bed? Don't worry. I won't run off. Rest, sir, for you are tired. Good night."

And without another word, Bilbo slipped out of his room, figurine still clutched tightly in his hand. Thorin heard his door click shut after a few seconds. It was only after a few seconds of silence did he realize that he had forgotten to respond to Bilbo's greeting. And so, he whispered, "Good night" to the quiet room before he fell asleep himself, images of the russet-haired man he was so besotted with playing over and over in his dreams.

* * *

**A/N: **Phew! I think this has been my longest chapter yet. So. I've got a little announcement to make: If any of you guys read Chapter 10, then I've got bad news: it's sort of going to be the last time we're going to see little Frodo for a while. Not to mention Smaug and his ugly mug (hey, that sort of rhymes!). Now, Frodo and Smaug fans, chill before you kill (and that rhymes too!) me. I've got a perfectly good reason for this: since the real **BatB **is only, like, one hour and twenty-four minutes long, that means lesser interactions between everybody's not-so-secret OTP (or brOTP, depending how you look at it). And since I want to explore this story a _lot _more, that means I have to amp up the romance using my _own _scenes. Now, I wouldn't have the time to do that if I were going to follow the **BatB **story line _exactly_, right?

Anyway, this author's note is getting quite long. Another sign that it's already 1:33 A.M here in my country and that I need to go to sleep if I want to get the required 8 hours kick people like me need.

But, before I finish this, I just want you guys to know that there is going to be quite a hefty amount of fluff and some mild smut in the next few chapters. Just a heads-up, you know, in case you guys were starting to get bored with the lack of interaction between this OTP (or brOTP, as I have aforementioned).

Massive thank you to my readers, favoriters (is that even a word? I dunno, I'm half-awake), reviewers, followers, and etc. This story would never have gone somewhere if it weren't for you and your trusty mouse. Until next Friday and Saturday, then!

Toodles!


	13. Chapter XIII

**Recap: **After blowing off enough steam, a frustrated Thorin continues to watch over Bilbo via the Arkenstone. Sort of like a demented guardian angel, but scarier when angered. To his horror, Bilbo's bleeding wounds (a few of which he himself had inflicted) has managed to attract a pack of Gundabad Wargs. Determined to make things right between them, Thorin rushes to his aid. Thankfully, he reaches Bilbo in time and knocks out all four Wargs, rendering himself unconscious in the process. Having no other choice, a resigned Bilbo half-drags, half-carries him to the Castle. Thorin and Dwalin make amends. Bilbo and Thorin both fall ill, then attempt to start their 'friendship' from scratch, sharing an almost intimate moment in the process.

* * *

**CHAPTER 13:**

"_If you look any harder, I'm pretty sure the air would_ _melt_."_  
_

Once again, Thorin felt his lips curl up into a half-smile at the memory of Bilbo teasing him. Had it only been a few mornings ago since he'd spoken them? It felt like _days. _Or that was probably just because of the fact that Bilbo's fever still hadn't stopped spiking up and down, giving Oin no other choice but to put his patient's room on lockdown, lest he infect every single one in the Castle with the various viruses he'd acquired out in the woods.

_It's your fault, anyway. If you hadn't startled him, then he'd be well._

Thorin flicked his head sharply to the side to get the pesky voice out of his head. Strangely enough, it sounded like...Fili. And speaking of a certain blonde-headed prince, one that wasn't still talking to him, where was he? He hadn't visited Thorin in a week, and it was slowly-but-surely driving the Beast King mad.

Then, he remembered.

"_Sure, call it whatever you like. Just...try to be _civil. _Please. For Master Baggins' sake. You've robbed him of his nephew and his freedom all in one day. I'd be pretty chuffed too if that happened to me. But, that's not the point. The point is that you have _friends_, Uncle. Good people who care about you and your welfare. Think about that, Uncle. Because until you figure everything out, maybe me and Kili won't come to you for a little while."_

"Calm yourself," he muttered. "It's only been seven days. They'll come around soon enough."

But, even as he spoke the words, he knew in his heart that it wasn't true. Fili and Kili were mischievous and playful, despite their ages, but they could also hold firmly to their word when they put their minds to it. Another trait they'd inherited from Thorin, minus the 'mischievous and playful' part.

He sighed and rubbed a paw over his tired eyes, smoothing out the lines on his forehead. He missed the pair and their cheerful smiles. Not to mention, their ability to see through people and view them for who they _really_ were. Just like they'd done with him. Then, as if on cue, the pesky little voice in his head spoke again, and each and every word he remembered, oh-so-reminiscent of Kili's voice, stung through him like little silver daggers.

"_You know, sometimes, even _I _wonder why I even bother with you in the first place._"

"**_SHUT UP_**!" Thorin snarled, whipping around and knocking a little hand-held mirror off the table next to him, the glass shards tinkling musically on the West Wing's cold tiles. He breathed heavily, in and out, for the next few seconds, trying to regain his composure as best as he could. His mind was whirring rapidly; Thorin could almost hear the gears clicking and clacking together.

Wait.

Something _was _clicking and clacking together. Footsteps. No, make that a _pair _of footsteps. Ones that he would know _anywhere_: Fili and Kili's.

"Perfect," Thorin muttered sarcastically under his breath. He kicked the now-empty mirror's holder underneath the table and strode to the balcony, flinging the windows as widely as they could go: the West Wing needed it. In the light, the room looked far more worse than it already did: the heavy, gossamer drapes were torn and fluttered uselessly to the ground, dried blood (Thorin's) still imprinted on some of them; the mirrors were smashed in, a thousand duplicates of Thorin's face staring back at him as he looked at each one; the Arkenstone's glass case in the corner, grimy from years of not being washed, the little tarp covering it rising lightly in the gentle November wind that had flitted in through the window.

And yet, there was beauty hidden in the room, too. Thorin had chosen the most opportune moment to throw the windows open: sunset. The sun's last rays caught on the broken bits of glass and fine china, refracting off their surfaces and giving the room an odd rainbow-ish color. It was pretty, and Thorin wished that Fili and Kili (or maybe, _just _miraculously maybe, Bilbo) would hurry up and share the sight with him.

Three raps on the door brought him out of his awe-filled reverie.

"Enter," he said, his voice high and regal. He heard a slight scuffle outside the door (_Probably Kili shoving Fili to enter first_, he thought), then it opened. The creaky black oak whined on it's hinges as it did so, hurting Thorin's overly-sensitive ears more than he'd liked, but he stood tall and turned his face to the balcony, catching his last glimpse of sun for the day as he did so. The rays warmed his face for a second, then it was gone, only to be replaced by cold moonlight a few minutes later.

"Uncle?"

That was Kili.

He slowly spun around, scared of what he would see on his nephew's faces. To his (hidden) relief, hostility wasn't on Fili's and disgust wasn't on Kili's. They were merely calculating, eyes sweeping around the room that still held the barest traces of the multi-spectrum show that Thorin had basked in a few minutes prior. Slowly, Thorin raised one, black eyebrow.

"Yes?"

Fili cleared his throat. "Oin sent us here to tell you that Bilbo is well enough to receive visitors now. You can go to him later, Uncle." With another curt nod, he and Kili turned around and tromped towards the door, Kili's arrows shuffling around noisily in his quiver. Thorin bit his lip and nearly winced out loud. Were his incisors really _that _pointed? Well, he wouldn't have known. After all, the Beast King was _never _nervous about something. Or at least, up until Bilbo Baggins had stomped into his life, along with his crinkly green eyes and dazzling smile.

"Fili, Kili, wait."

The pair stopped.

"Yes?" asked Kili, still facing the door. Somehow, that slight show of defiance stung much more than the words embedded in Thorin's brain. He shook his head and thoughts aside and cleared his throat. "I'd prefer it much more if the both of you looked at me," he requested. Thorin watched as Kili's head slowly slid to the right, assessing Fili's expression. The older Oakenshield prince nodded, and both brothers did as Thorin had asked them to do.

"What is it, Uncle?" Fili inquired. He still wasn't meeting Thorin's eyes, and it angered Thorin more than he liked. Only the memory of gentle, green eyes and cool fingers running down his chest calmed him down. He cleared his throat and went on.

"Are the both of you still mad at me?"

The words had come out soft and wobbly, and it was all Thorin could do not to flush red at the incredulous looks his nephews were now flashing at him. He tried to look elsewhere; the ceiling, the floor, the door above Fili and Kili's heads. Anywhere, save for his nephews' large eyes and gaping mouths.

Fili was the first one to recover. He swallowed audibly and clenched his hands into fists, letting his sharp nails dig into his palms. It woke him up, anyway, made his mind alert and fresh. Something he needed whenever he talked with Thorin about _really _important matters such as family and feelings. Fili had never liked talking about those sorts of things, anyway. They were girls' stuff and best left alone, lest he be laughed at by his brother and Ori.

But, he wasn't naive, either. He knew when to be to poetic and brash. And this opportunity called for both.

"Well, we weren't _really _mad at you, Uncle..." Kili began.

Fili cut him off.

"We _were_."

Thorin's heart soared at the past tense.

"Now, we're just plain annoyed at you."

It dropped.

"But, we heard of what you did a few days ago, Uncle. You saved Bilbo's life, beat up a full-grown pack of Wargs, and...that was something that me or Kili couldn't have done without help. So, yeah, in short, maybe we're still a little pissed off, but...the real question is: are _you _still mad at me?"

Thorin noticed that Fili didn't include his brother in the question that he _knew_ he'd answer with a simple 'no'. But, then again, Fili had always been like that, leaving his little brother out of his messes, even though Kili had been the main cause of nearly _all _of them.

"Uncle?"

Once again, Thorin started, but he hid it easily. After all, where else would Fili have learned the ability to mask emotions oh-so-reflexively?

"Do you think we should just go? His eyes are glazed over, see? Maybe he's not feeling well," he heard Kili whisper. His eyes flickered once to his nephew's, seeing that they were almond-shaped like Bilbo's, but not quite as light. Maybe a shade or two darker, but lovely all the same. He shook himself out of his stupor and spoke. "No, wait. Er, sorry. I'm just...disoriented," said Thorin, ignoring the confused looks on his nephews' faces when he said the word 'sorry'. It wasn't like him to apologize, after all. Somehow, everybody in the castle had learned the hard way that the words 'apologize' and 'sorry' weren't in the Beast King's vocabulary.

Well, maybe, now they were, all thanks to a little man who had russet-colored curls and full lips that Thorin still yearned to kiss raw.

_Why, for the love of all things that glittered, do all my thoughts keep going back to him? _he thought heatedly.

Unfortunately, the voice in his head picked this opportune moment to shut up.

"Uncle?"

This time, Fili was the one who had spoken. He took a tentative step forward, and once again, Thorin was struck of how much Fili's eyes looked like his: upturned, three hues of blue lighter, piercing but gentle (in Fili's case), and could turn icy when necessary. Then again, Thorin had been abusing that feature more and more as the years had stretched on.

"No, my boy. I'm not mad at you. Only...enlightened," he said, once Fili had stopped walking completely. He heard Kili gasp; it wasn't often that Thorin used terms of endearment for either of them. More often than not, it had been his mother or one of the castle staff, but never Thorin. This was definitely a first for both brothers.

"Come here," ordered Thorin, beckoning one paw towards Kili for him to come closer as well. The fourteen-year-old nodded and gulped stiffly as he approached. Thorin noticed that his right hand, the one that held Frerin's bow, was quivering slightly. But, he merely brushed it off and filed it under 'nervousness'. After all, he was nervous as well at what he was going to do.

When both Oakenshields were close enough, he raised his arms and hugged the both of them tightly. The first time he'd done so in at least five years. The both of them smelled of sweat and November breeze, but Thorin held on and dropped kisses into their hair.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, _so _sorry. I shouldn't have left you all alone those years. Forgive me?" he mumbled into Fili's thick strands, inhaling his nephew's distinct scent. "We already have, Uncle," he heard Kili mumble. Thorin felt Fili nod into his chest, and his heart swelled with so much love for the both of them that he gasped out loud. The princes stumbled backwards at once, Fili's hands straying to his sword, though the blade was sheathed properly.

"Did we hurt you, Uncle?" he asked. Thorin shook his head. The minute he did so, both princes moved forward to hug him once more, this embrace shorter than the last. Fili straightened his jacket and shifted the sword belt on his hip higher.

"Will you join us for dinner?" Kili asked. "Maybe," Thorin answered with a teasing grin. Kili smiled and latched his fingers onto Fili's sleeve. "C'mon, Fi. Let's head downstairs and scare Ori or something. Uncle probably has to clean up for dinner. After all, Master Bilbo'll be joining us again. He's well enough, remember?" said Kili, winking mischievously at Thorin, leaving his uncle spluttering vivaciously.

At that, both Fili and Kili laughed heartily, filling the room with their chuckles. A sound that the West Wing hadn't encountered in a long while. It seemed right and fit to be there, and Thorin wondered if there were more ways to draw the sounds out more.

"See ya, Uncle!" Fili called out of his shoulder as Kili half-dragged him out of the door. Then, it snapped shut behind him, and Thorin was alone. Physically, at least. For his heart felt as light as mithril, having regained his nephews' trust and confidence once more.

* * *

**A/N: '**Ello, y'all. So, I'm posting this shorter-than-the-last-one chapter early since I'm home from boarding school, thanks to my little friends called 'tonsillitis' and 'fever'. Sigh. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, even though it's sort of a filler chapter. Your reviews were definitely well appreciated, guys, and even though I don't shout-out as much as before, know that I adore each and every one of them. Especially having realized how much effort it takes to type a review into the review box when you're busy reading. Sighs again.

Hugs and Kisses!


	14. Chapter XIV

**Recap: **Thorin and his nephews, Fili and Kili, _finally _make up. The two leave him alone when they give him the not-so-subtle hint that they know about their Uncle's infatuation with Bilbo. Thorin doesn't mind, though. He's far too happy basking in the fact that everything's right in his world again.

* * *

**CHAPTER 14:**

Bilbo had just about _had it _with his hair.

No matter how much he had combed, flattened, or dampened it with water in the last ten minutes, his unruly curls simply wouldn't go in the direction he wanted them to go: downwards. With a sigh of frustration, he ran the comb underneath the tap once more, shivering slightly at the feel of cool water against his skin.

It was only recently that his fever had come down, leaving his body feeling quite sensitive to everything that he came into contact with. The icy water was no exception. Twisting the faucet shut, he tapped the comb a few times on the porcelain sink's side to dry it, moving a little bit sideways to avoid the beads of water that flew off the hair tool. Once this was finished, he started to rake the comb into his hair once more, using much more force than was necessary.

"Why _am _I so insistent on looking good this evening, anyway?" he muttered to himself, frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The reflection frowned right back at him, though Bilbo would've preferred it much more if did something else. Nowadays, he looked so sullen that even Oin had given up on making him smile. The root of his problem, however, was something that Bilbo hadn't figured out yet.

"Or have I?"

For the past few nights that he had tossed and turned relentlessly in bed, Bilbo hadn't stopped thinking about a certain King residing inside the Castle's four walls. His mind had kept flickering back to their...moment in the King's bedchamber, and it certainly hadn't forgotten the feel of Thorin's fingers on his own. Not to mention, the sensation of running his fingers down Thorin's well-toned chest.

Bilbo giggled. A characteristic that most definitely _wasn't _like him. He raised a wagging finger at his reflection and went back to the task at hand. Subconsciously, his right hand crept down to his waistcoat pocket, where he had been keeping the mermaid figurine. As soon as his fingers closed around the precious metal, he immediately relaxed, as if touching the statuette was a substitute for Thorin's somewhat calming presence that night instead.

_Now, hang on just a minute, _thought Bilbo, astonished. _Since when did I find _Thorin's_ presence _calming_?_

He shook his head and made a face at himself. Blimey, the sickness had probably infected his brain, what with it thinking nonstop about the Beast King. One who had gray-blue eyes, a defined brow bone, and a deep, baritone voice that sent shivers down Bilbo's spine.

"It's hopeless," sighed Bilbo, as Thorin's features flashed into his mind once more. "This is going to get me nowhere."

Resigned, he set the comb down on the sink's edge and went back into his bedroom, plopping down on the bed once he was near enough. He ran his hands over his eyes and rolled over onto his stomach, fluffing his face into a nearby pillow.

_Thorin, Thorin, Thorin, _his mind sang.

Gritting his teeth, he balled his hand into a fist and beat somewhat viciously on the back of his head, as if by doing so, the voice would shut up.

It didn't.

_You're just mad because he didn't visit you. Not once, _it said reproachfully.

Bilbo felt a twinge of...something. Well, it _was _true, anyway. Thorin hadn't so much as poked his furry head into the comfy room, let alone send his regards.

"Oh, come of it, Baggins," he said aloud to the quiet room. "Did you really think spending one night with him would change your dynamic oh-so-quickly? He's a King, for the Valar's sakes."

Three raps on his door broke him out of his Thorin-induced reverie. Mahal, even _that _made him sound like a creepy pervert. Sighing, Bilbo jumped off the bed and strode to the door, his bare feet barely making a sound on the plush Victorian carpet. Twisting the knob, Bilbo got the fright of his life when he saw the object of his musings (_'not _obsessions, he thought frantically) standing on the little step in front of his room, fist still raised mid-knock.

Upon seeing Bilbo standing there, Thorin's eyes widened and lowered his fist, swinging it from side to side like a metronome. Bilbo suddenly had the wild urge to run back into the room and hide underneath the covers. But, he couldn't move. Not even if he wanted to. No, Thorin's gaze had made sure of holding him wherever he was.

"Er," said Bilbo, speaking the first thing that popped into his head.

_Stupid, stupid, _he berated.

"Uh," Thorin answered.

_Idiot, think! _he thought frantically.

Neither was aware that the other was panicking full-time inside their minds. All they could see was that Bilbo's cheeks were crimson, and that Thorin's eyes weren't quite meeting his. After a hefty amount of awkward silence, Bilbo cleared his throat and stepped out into the hallway, clicking the door shut behind him. Then, they began to walk, even though Thorin hadn't made any mention of where they were going.

"So, how are you, if I may ask?" inquired Bilbo, shooting Thorin's chest a firm look. Instinctively, Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, only dropping them when an unknown look flashed over Bilbo's face. "Sorry. I'm considerably better than the last time you saw me," he answered. "You?"

Bilbo chanced a glance at Thorin's face, then immediately looked away, for Thorin had been staring at him most intently. If it was even possible, Bilbo's face turned a darker shade of red and gulped. Giving into his nervous urges, he ran a hand through his curls, ruffling them into a much more tousled shape. "I'm fine, thanks." And before he could stop his tongue, the words were out of his mouth.

"Why didn't you visit me?"

Thorin stopped in his tracks so abruptly, he nearly rammed into a sturdy table positioned directly next to him. The furniture rattled, but held firm. Thorin steadied it carefully with one, large hand, his talons gleaming in the overhead light. To Bilbo, though, the sheen wasn't as menacing as before. It almost seemed reassuring, thanks in large part to the fact that the claws had come in handy when Thorin had been saving his life.

"Well, I...I...Er..."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot," said Bilbo hastily. He gave Thorin a nervous smile and ran another finger through his hair. Unconsciously, Thorin licked his lips, his eyes fixed firmly on Bilbo's own.

_What I wouldn't give..._

"Er, by the way, where are we going?" Bilbo asked, his hand fumbling for something in his pocket. Judging from the clinking of nail against metal, Thorin suspected it was the mermaid figurine he had given Bilbo a few nights ago. A heady rush of...something flowed into Thorin's chest, making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, though the definite cause was most difficult to pinpoint. Was it because of the fact that Bilbo still had his 'welcoming gift'? Or was it simply because Bilbo was beside him, after so many nights of wanting - no, _needing _to see him?

Yeah, the latter was probably it.

"The dining room. We're having steaks and mashed potatoes for tonight. Or would you prefer something else?" he asked. Bilbo shook his head, russet strands flying everywhere. On an impulse, Thorin reached out and gently brushed a piece of bronze curl out of Bilbo's eyes. The latter froze, and so did Thorin. Bilbo ever-so-slightly inclined his head in Thorin's direction, green orbs wide as stars. Not to mention, shining just as bright.

_Probably a trick of the light, _thought Thorin, his heart hammering rapidly.

He then realized that his hand had shifted subconsciously. It was now resting on Bilbo's cheek, and was it just his imagination, or was Bilbo leaning into his paw?

Quickly, but not quick enough to scratch Bilbo's cheek, he pulled his hand away.

Bilbo could still feel Thorin's hand imprinted on his skin, as if the mere warmth of it had scalded him. But, not in a bad way, no. It was so good that Bilbo wanted (dare he think it?) _more._

"Forgive me," Thorin said. "No, no, it's quite alright," answered Bilbo. He smiled at Thorin and shook his head to the right, shaking the same strand of hair out of his eyes. Grin still on his face, he took a few steps forward and stopped only when he realized that Thorin wasn't behind him.

"Coming to dinner?" he said.

Thorin shook himself out of his stupor.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, I'd like that," he said, a little smile curling his lips up at the edges. "Lovely," said Bilbo, heart still beating fast at the fact that Thorin had been _so _close to kiss, and he hadn't jumped on the opportunity. Little did he know, the other was thinking the same.

* * *

"Master Baggins!"

Bilbo turned around, only to find himself tackled by two, strong blurs: Fili and Kili. He laughed and wrapped his arms tighter around the lads, dropping kisses into their sweet-smelling hair. When he finally let them go, both teens had flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.

_Just like Frodo..._

He shook the thought from his mind and focused on the brothers, who were now chattering away in rapid Westron, their voices overlapping like a clear brook running over stones. Bilbo sighed and held up a hand. Kili and Fili stopped talking at once, though the excited flush was still in their cheeks.

"We missed you!" said Kili. Bilbo rolled his eyes. Fili and Kili had visited him at least an hour ago, seeking advice on how to ask their Uncle for forgiveness. He'd told them to simply 'lower their prides' and that everything will go their way. Judging from the way Thorin kept on sneaking fond glances at them, his plan had worked. For a moment, he wondered how on earth Fili and Kili had managed to earn their Uncle's forgiveness, but then again, Thorin wasn't quite the Bea-No, the _person _he'd met a few days ago.

No, _this _Thorin in front of him seemed civil, with kind, gray-blue eyes, a lilting smile, and an easy grace to his walk. Unlike the Thorin who'd screamed at him, raked an ugly line down his arm, and terrified his poor nephew to death. Bilbo decided he liked the newer Thorin more. He was dragged out of his reverie when, suddenly, the kitchen doors banged open, Bombur stepping out of it triumphantly.

The chef had flour pasted all over his face, some of it nesting comfortably in his carroty hair. His apron was stained with icing and honey, but Bilbo only had eyes for the large cake Bombur held in his meaty hands. There were at least a hundred candles on the topmost layer, the little flames flickering gently in the light wind.

"Yum!" he heard Fili say beside him, followed by the sounds of hungry gulping and hands rubbing together. _That _snapped him back to the present. Bilbo cleared his throat and the princes turned to him. It was obvious that their mouths were watering for a piece of the sweet pastry. Sighing, he put his hands on his hips and changed his facial expression to that of his sternest.

"Wash your hands, boys, and don't come out of that kitchen til they're squeaky clean!" he ordered.

"But, they're _clean!_" protested Kili, who hid his hands behind his back at once. Fili, on the other hand, was more compliant and marched straight to the kitchen, whistling cheerfully as he went. But Kili stood firm, jutting his chin out as if he were five years old once more. "I don't need to wash my hands. Besides, you're not going to be the one using my hands, right?" he reasoned.

Bilbo bit his tongue to keep from chuckling out loud. Behind him, he could sense the rest of the staff, Thorin included, watching their little conversation with utmost interest. He ignored them all (especially Thorin) and turned his mind back to his newest charge. If he couldn't take care of Frodo, then he would most certainly watch over Fili and Kili.

"No, but I'm also not going to be the one who won't get a slice of that cake, won't I? After all, my hands are perfectly clean. And yours aren't," said Bilbo triumphantly. Kili spluttered, looking to the kitchen door, just as Fili stomped out again, wringing his hands dry. "He's right, you know?" crowed Bofur, who had just come in from a side entrance. He nodded respectfully at Thorin and shot a cheerful glance at Bilbo.

"Up on your feet again, Master Bilbo?" he asked, giving the person in question a half-hug.

Thorin practically glowered.

"Uh, yes, yes," said Bilbo, patting Bofur's back to reassure him that _yes,_ he was quite alright now. Bofur ruffled his hair and smiled at him, his braided mustache still neat and plaited carefully after a hard day's work in Thorin's lush gardens. Thankful for the distraction, Kili started to slip away, only to have Dori's hand latch firmly onto his ear.

"Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast, young man. You still have to wash your hands if you want to taste even a crumb of that cake," he said. Bilbo shot him a thankful look. "Just like Ori," Dori said out loud, shooting his youngest brother a doleful glance. Ori laughed nervously and shot off for the kitchen, mumbling something about having to set the table in the quickest time possible.

"Fili!" Kili yelped. "Help me! They're ganging up on me!"

The elder Oakenshield prince turned to his younger brother with a mischievous glint in his sparkly, cerulean eyes. A glint that, Bilbo noticed, hadn't been there in quite a while. "Serves you right, then. After all, wasn't it you that told Mister Dori that _I _broke his best teapot when it was you that done it?" he said, giving Thorin a cheeky wink. To Bilbo's delight, the latter returned it.

Kili practically quailed underneath Dori's glare.

"I may have accidentally used it for a target once or twice?" he said, chuckling weakly. Dori's grip on his ear tightened. "Oh, you young rascal! Prince or no, I can _still _chuck you off the battlements. Now, off you to the kitchen!" With a shove in the room's direction, Kili stumbled towards the sink grudgingly, rubbing his throbbing ear. "I'll get your butt for that one," he grumbled as he passed a triumphant-looking Fili, socking him in the ribs. The blonde moved around his brother's fist almost gracefully, managing to sneak in a hair ruffle or two.

"I _hate _you."

"Love you too."

Eventually, Kili _did _wash his hands, and soon, everybody was sitting down to a nice, home-cooked dinner, courtesy of Bombur and Dori.

"Lovely mashed potatoes, Dori," Bilbo said, once the meal was over. He had burped out loud more than once, but nobody had seemed to mind. After all, the Castle had gone so long with nobody to mother all of them (save for Dori, but nobody wanted to listen to him, anyway) that manners had practically been forgotten, shelved away into the corners of their minds.

"Thanks," answered the recipient of the compliment, his cheekbones spotted high with color. Bilbo beamed at him and continued to shovel cake into his mouth, stopping only ever-so-often to dab a napkin around his lips. As soon as the meal was over, Bilbo immediately offered to wash the dishes, having been so used to doing so back at home.

"Oh, no, Master Baggins. Your fever might come back," warned Oin, whose hearing aid was once again clipped close to his right ear. "It's alright," said Bilbo, voice a little louder than usual for the half-deaf medic's sake, "I don't really mind doing the dishes and I feel fit as a fiddle."

One by one, everybody started to disagree, pointing out that Bilbo was a guest and that he needn't do anything at all.

"Look at you! You're already starting to go pale from standing for so long. Take a seat."

"There're bags underneath your eyes, Master Baggins. I suggest you take a well-deserved nap now."

"You look thin. Here, have some more steak."

"Don't do the dishes, we'll take care of it!"

Then, finally, when Bilbo's patience was starting to ebb, the voice he'd been waiting to hear spoke up:

"I'll do the dishes with you."

Everybody stopped talking at once, their eyes growing as large as saucers as they turned to stare at Thorin. The King merely raised an eyebrow, stood up, and pushed his plate away. Carefully, while everybody was still dumbstruck, he gathered up their plates and motioned with his head towards the kitchen door, his eyes locked on Bilbo's all the while.

"Come on. I'll dry. You wash," he offered.

Nodding with his mouth still half-open, Bilbo followed Thorin into the kitchen, not even pausing to check the identical grins that were slowly spreading on Fili and Kili's faces.

* * *

"How...are you enjoying your stay, so far?"

Bilbo looked up from the plate he'd been hosing down, bits of meat and soggy vegetable disappearing down the drain. There was a sad sort of smile on Thorin's lips, and he knew that the Beast King was remembering the way he had dragged Frodo away from Bilbo a few days ago. Bilbo shrugged and handed him a plate, trying not to notice that their fingers clunked together every time he did so.

"Fine enough, I guess. Your nephews are an absolute delight to be with."

Thorin grinned. A real one, this time.

"So they tell me," he said, chuckling. Bilbo laughed along with him. When their laughter subsided, Bilbo reached for the last plate and scrubbed the food crumbs off. He looked out of the window hanging over the sink, his eyes scanning the dark skies for constellations that he knew.

"Looking for something?" Thorin asked. He pressed closer, until he and Bilbo were nearly arm to arm. Bilbo was aware of it, but didn't mind. There was something about Thorin's steady warmth that he found solace in, and he was determined to have as much of it as possible. Or, rather, until somebody came in and interrupted their little moment of peace again.

"No. Just a certain group of stars that I might recognize," he answered. Thorin suddenly stretched one arm out, pointing at the closest cluster of stars. "See that? I think it's called Orion's Belt," he said. Bilbo cocked his head to the side for a minute, before nodding his agreement. "Yes, it is," he said with a smile on his face.

Thorin looked over at his companion.

The sweetest grin was on Bilbo's lips, and he felt a sudden rush of joy to have put it there. Subconsciously, he shifted closer as well, trying to close the little gap between them. He shuddered a little bit as fur met naked skin, for Bilbo was only wearing a short-sleeved tunic, and _damn!, _did he look fine.

"Get ahold of yourself, Oakenshield. You've only known each other for a week. A _week_," he mumbled underneath his breath. "I'm sorry, what?" Bilbo said, getting his bearings after having stared at the stars for so long. "Nothing. Nothing that your pretty little head should worry about," replied Thorin.

As expected, the statement earned reactions from both: flushed cheeks (and ear tips) for Bilbo, a mental berating for Thorin.

"Well, then, my head says thank you?" said Bilbo awkwardly. It seemed the right thing to say, anyway. The both of them broke into nervous giggles that subsequently faded into breathy hiccups. Once again, Bilbo was reminded of that particular night a few weeks ago. The exact same thing had happened, and here they were again, side-by-side, their brains buzzing with thousands of things to say, except that their mouths were too scared to do so.

_Oh, Aule, loosen my tongue, _thought Thorin, frustrated at having nothing appropriate to say.

But, then again, what - _exactly - _did you say to the person you liked...a lot? No doubt anything that came out of his mouth now would be labelled awkward and Bilbo would sooner or later stop coming up with jokes that would cover up the queasiness that followed.

_Damn, Oakenshield. Why must you be such an idiot? _he scolded himself.

"Thorin?"

Bilbo's voice broke through his thoughts like a diver coming up for air.

"Are you alright? You're still holding the last dish. And not too tightly, mind you. Dori'll probably kill you if you break it."

Thorin turned his head towards Bilbo and saw that the latter was smiling at him. Not too widely, but not too small, either. It was sweet. The type of grin that Thorin liked to see on Bilbo oh-so-much. His green eyes were softened with something that Thorin could only describe as fondness. For who? For him (Thorin's heart leaped at the thought)? Then, why? He'd only offered Bilbo his company, after all. Was it possible that the man in front of him wasn't mad at him anymore?

"You're still staring, Thorin," Bilbo reminded him gently, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

But, such was his concentration on Master Baggins' face that Thorin started, dropping the plate on the floor completely. The both of them jumped, then, springing apart as the dish smashed on the floor, fine china flying in every direction.

"I am _so _sorry," said Bilbo, dropping to his knees at once to pick the shards up. Thorin knelt as well, his kneecaps barely registering the fact that a few pieces of shrapnel had embedded themselves in the thick muscle. No, he was still reeling from the fact that Bilbo was..._fond _of him. After all, who could learn to love, let alone, be fond of, a Beast? Then again, Bilbo was different from most people. He was kind and sweet and gentle and non-judgmental and...blimey, was he slowly starting to fall in love?

Thorin gulped at the realization. Liking Bilbo was one thing. _Falling in love _with Bilbo was another. But then again, it wasn't _that _hard to do so. Bilbo was handsome, gentlemanly, clever, and all of the other things he'd longed to find in another. His stomach clenched, but not in an unpleasant way. No, more like the way it did whenever he leaped off the castle turrets to get adrenaline flowing through his veins once again.

_Shit_, he thought.

"...bin these so the both of us can get some sleep," Bilbo was saying. Finally, the russet-haired man looked up, suddenly aware that Thorin hadn't been listening the entire time. "Thorin?" he asked once more, waving his hand in front of the glazed-over eyes that seemed to be staring at him. "Are you-_OW!_"

Bilbo yelped, startling Thorin out of his hazy thoughts. He looked down to see that Bilbo had impaled his palm on one of the shards, scarlet blood spurting anew from the fresh wound. Thorin nearly groaned out loud. Instead, he grabbed Bilbo's palm as gently as he could, and pulled the offending piece out, despite the fact that Bilbo's keening hisses were enough to wake the entire Castle.

"Here, let me," he said, pulling Bilbo upwards and leading him over to the sink. Bilbo let himself be pulled and kept quiet, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. As he reached for a towel, Thorin couldn't help but notice that their fingers were only a few inches away from being intertwined now. He _longed _to do as much, but Bilbo's wound was a hindrance, and so he pushed the idea aside. He ran the towel underneath the tap and dabbed, shushing Bilbo gently whenever he reached a sensitive nerve.

"Hey, hey. It's almost gone, see?" Thorin chided, wiping the towel around the wound's edges. When he was done, he reached for his freshly-washed cloak's hem and ripped it off, never minding the fact that it was irreparable. Bilbo needed the fabric more than he did. Slowly, he tied the material around Bilbo's palm, forming a sort of wristband that stretched from his fingers to the curve of his wristbone.

_Purple looks good on him, _thought Thorin with an inward grin.

"There, all done," he said, giving the makeshift one last knot.

"Thanks," came Bilbo's soft reply. "You're welcome," said Thorin. He looked up, then, and heard his breathing hitch. He'd somehow miscalculated how far apart they had been from each other, and now..._now _Bilbo's nose was brushing against his. Warm breaths mingled with slightly-cold ones, and Bilbo felt time slow down.

Dare he lean in?

He did.

Slowly, Bilbo's and Thorin's eyes shut on their own accord, their lips just about to touch when...

_BANG! BANG! BANG! _

The pots on the counter slid off it, crashing to the floor in loud, deafening clangs. Bilbo and Thorin jumped apart, their hands still touching. Subconsciously, Thorin pulled Bilbo behind him, ignoring the crunch of fine china underneath their feet. They didn't hurt, anyway. To Thorin, they felt more like ant bites, what with the natural thickness of his fur and the heavy amount of muscle his Beast was given.

"Who's there?" he boomed, still keeping a firm hold on Bilbo's small hand. With a thrill of delight, Thorin realized that Bilbo had knitted their fingers together. He squeezed experimentally and Bilbo squeezed back. It was all he could do not to squeal like the village girls he'd seen during one of his excursion trips to the village. Well, that had been a long time ago, and they'd been squealing _at him, _but right now, he couldn't care less. Not when Bilbo's fingers were entangled in his like they had always belonged there.

"Sorry, sorry!" came another familiar voice.

Fili.

"Fili?" said Bilbo, stating the obvious.

_BANG!_

"Damn, another one. Sorry, Bilbo!"

Kili.

Thorin ran a hand across his face. He was going to murder those meddling nephews of his, one of these days. Sadly, Bilbo's fingers slipped out of his at that point. He walked out behind Thorin and turned to face him. A little smile was on his lips, and Thorin could see that his cheeks were flushed. In the rosy moonlight, Bilbo looked beautiful to him.

"I'd better go and help those two buffoons sort themselves out," he said.

"Yes, you should," Thorin said, his voice tight with some sort of emotion he couldn't identify.

_Love, _the same pesky voice in his head sang. Only this time, he didn't tell it to shut up.

Bilbo smiled at him, the one Thorin loved, and stretched up on his tiptoes, pressing a little kiss to Thorin's forehead. At his touch, Thorin's eyes closed again, savoring the feel of Bilbo's lips on his fur. It ended all-too-soon. And by the time Thorin's eyes had opened once more, all Thorin could see of Bilbo was his retreating figure as he moved deeper into the kitchen.


	15. Chapter XV

**A/N: **Hey, guys! So, I know it's totally uncharacteristic of me to post an **A/N **before you've even read the chapter, but this particular baby just _had _to be mentioned: Remember what I said a few chapters (and **A/N**s) back about Smaug and little Frodo not making an appearance for a little while? Well, I lied. Sort of...Please bear with me and my foggy brain. I'm suffering through post-braces attachment pain and haven't been thinking quite straightly, hence the writer's block. I'm so sorry and I hope y'all enjoy the chapter.

**Recap: **Bilbo is deemed well enough to have dinner with the Castle's other inhabitants. To his surprise, his 'personal escort' for the night is none other than the Castle's master, Thorin Oakenshield, himself. While walking to the dining room, the two share another sweet moment that leaves the both of them thinking (not to mention, completely _needing _to) about kissing the other. The evening ends with Thorin and Bilbo washing the dishes together in the kitchen, watching the stars through the kitchen window, _almost _sharing a kiss, and Bilbo having to settle for Thorin's forehead to plant one on instead, thanks to two expert moment-ruiners named Fili and Kili.

* * *

**CHAPTER 15:**

Darkness fell much more quickly over Hobbiton whenever winter approached. Also, the signs of turning in for the night became much more pronounced. Everywhere Smaug looked, windows were being shut (but not before it's occupants nodded respectfully at him), lamps were being trimmed down to their rosiest glows, and children were being ushered into their beds by tired parents, their moans of "But I'm not sleepy yet!" slipping out from under the door frames.

In a way, it was peaceful, soothing, and gave off a sense of order and tranquility. But that was not the feeling Smaug felt at the moment. No, it was something..._stronger. _Hatred was more like it. He hated the fact that everything was so _boring _in this town, and that Bilbo Baggins had gone missing almost two weeks ago, but nobody had even bothered to even search for him.

Well, unless you counted Frodo.

But then again, nobody did.

At the thought of Bilbo's precocious nephew, Smaug's blood boiled. And if piercing looks could have set the entire village and the lightly-falling snow on the tops of their roofs on fire, Hobbiton would have been a blazing inferno by now.

"I'll get you soon," Smaug promised viciously as he walked past Bag End, the solitary light in the window being the only indication that anybody lived there at all. These days, the teen barely walked out of the front door, and if he did, it was only for a short while and to do some important errand that needed doing. He didn't even talk to Sam Gamgee or Rosie Cotton anymore, let alone Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, who were the only other living relatives he knew of.

Smaug could hardly find it in him to care. He _would, _though, if Frodo suddenly keeled over and died. A smug smile crept onto Smaug's lips at the thought. Wouldn't that just be a wonderful early birthday present?

Shifting the bags hanging on his belt, Smaug walked on, his fingertips brushing against Bag End's faded gate. All of it would soon be his, there was no doubt about that. Not if his mission was successful.

Soon enough, his feet led him to the guardsman at the gate. Tom stood up at once, his back bent, thanks to years of suffering from osteoporosis. "Where you goin'?" he asked, suspicion in his tone. Unlike all of the villagers in town who practically _idolized _Smaug, Tom loathed him and saw him for what he really was: a cold-blooded reptile who loved killing and did it for the thrill that came with it.

"None of your business, old man," Smaug answered smoothly. In one fluid motion, Smaug unhitched one of the little cotton sacks at his waist and threw it at Tom. The other caught it with fumbling fingers, and Smaug rolled his eyes when it slipped through Tom's shaking fingers, and fell to the ground. It's contents made a small, clanking noise as metal met pavement; a gold coin spilled out of the sack's loosened top. Tom's wizened gray eyes grew large.

"For my passage?" Smaug said.

When Tom didn't reply, Smaug sighed almost resignedly and drew a large knife from his belt. Then, he pushed the blade underneath the man's chin and pressed quite hardly: Tom felt blood seep down his throat; he swallowed. Then, he made up his mind.

"Alright, then."

Smaug slid the knife back into it's sheath with a crocodile grin on his face.

"Nice doing business with you."

* * *

"I don't usually let visitors into the Asylum in the middle of the night, but your ugly friend said you'd make it worth my while, precious," Gollum cooed, caressing the gold ring that he wore on his right finger. As usual, his voice was raspy from coughing and drinking too much, his nine remaining teeth gleamed sickeningly in the harsh lighting.

Smaug tossed the remaining bag from his belt onto the table. As before, the top loosened itself from it's knot, and gold coins spilled out onto the tabletop. Gollum pounced on them at once, his deft fingers moving them to his side of the table before Smaug could grab them back.

"I'm listening," he said, though his reactions were quite _au contraire,_ for he was now too busy counting the contents of the bag. "It's like this: I've got my heart set on marrying Bilbo Baggins, and he's gone missing, but I have a feeling that if my plan works, he'll come running right into my hands," began Smaug.

"Everyone in town thinks that his nephew, Frodo, is a lunatic right now, what with him coming into the tavern a few nights back and rambling on and on about how his uncle was taken by a...how did he put it? Oh, yes, right. A 'beast in the old castle in the woods'."

Gollum stopped counting his loot.

"Frodo is...quite harmless. I should know, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins dropped him off here once while she did her summer shopping. He's a good enough lad, precious."

Smaug ignored this statement.

"The _point _is, Bilbo would do _anything _at all to make sure, and to keep him, from being locked up."

"So, you want me to throw Frodo into the Asylum, precious, unless he agrees to marry you, precious?"

Smaug nodded, once, twice.

Gollum's face contorted into something unreadable. "Oh, that is _despicable,_ precious!" But before Smaug could even make a cry of outrage, Gollum clapped his hands together and cackled out loud, throwing his head back and giving Smaug a full view of his teeth.

"Oh, I _love _it. When do we start?"

Smaug grinned.

* * *

Bofur wasn't the smartest of the flock, that much everybody knew. Nor was he the most good-looking, the neatest, the cleanest, or any of the superlatives for all of the nice-sounding adjectives out there. And yet, the middle-aged gardener had something that others didn't: the ability to stay positive at _all _times.

Not to mention, the ability to see whether things were brewing between a certain Beast King and his newest friend. Specifically one that had curls the color of honey and eyes that gleamed like forest moss.

"What d'you think's going on between King Thorin and that little chap, Bilbo?" Oin asked him during one slow day in Thorin's orchards, the cold December wind whipping into their hair and blowing the medic's graying beard askew. Bofur straightened up, his spine clicking nicely as he stretched. After he finished brushing the soil from his hands, he shrugged, a good-natured smile on his face.

Oin spluttered.

"Oh, come on! Surely you know _something? _You're with Bilbo most of the time. Or the time he doesn't spend with Thorin doing Mahal-knows-what, anyway. You're practically his best friend here," he pointed out. "Exactly," responded Bofur cheekily. "I'm his best friend and best friends don't go around telling other people their best friend's secrets. Now, if you'll excuse me, Master Oin, I believe the begonias on the _other _side of the Castle are calling my name."

And with a jaunty wave, the gardener was off, leaving Oin standing in the middle of the medicinal herbs' patch with a flustered expression on his face.

* * *

"How many times do I have to tell you: Don't slurp! Two words, Thorin. _Two words. _And yet you couldn't even remember them for all of the gold inside this Castle."

Thorin merely sighed and leaned his cheek into the heel of his hand, gray-blue eyes staring not at the man sitting across him for once, but outside the dining room's snow-frosted window pane.

"Are you even _listening _to me? Hello?"

Bilbo's hand came down on the table with a loud _crash!_, jolting Thorin back to Earth and Erebor Castle. His paw accidentally slapped down onto the hard wood, sending silverware and food flying everywhere. Bilbo rolled his eyes and slid out of his chair, bare feet barely making noise on the cold tiles.

"Care to help me, Your Majesty?" he said condescendingly.

The Beast King grinned, all pointy canines and gleaming molars. "As you wish, Your Shortness," retorted Thorin. Bilbo's eyes widened at once, a faux look of pain coming over his face. "T-T-Take that back!" he pretended to stutter, while Thorin's throaty chuckles started to fill the room.

All he got in return, however, was a chunk of butter on his nose, handily launched from the spoon Thorin was currently holding.

"You. Didn't."

"I just did."

"Oh, it is _on._"

Without further ado, Bilbo grabbed a handful of grapes from the still-upright fruit tray and threw it at Thorin, hitting him squarely in the face.

"Ha!" Bilbo squealed with triumph. There was jam in his hair and orange juice in his eyes, courtesy of Thorin's almost-perfect aim, but he couldn't have cared less right now. He was happy, and that was all he could feel, not to mention, think about, at the moment.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when another piece of Thorin's breakfast, a half-slice of ham, smacked him on the spot between his eyes. "That's not fair!" he protested. "I was distracted!" Thorin merely smirked at Bilbo and pelted him with another piece of nearly-eaten up ham.

"All's fair in love and war, Bilbo," he said in his rich, baritone voice.

"Oh, _shut up._"

And so the food fight continued, the items on the table disappearing more and more as Thorin and Bilbo went all-out with their weapons, ranging from juices to fruits to viands.

"I'll get you this time, Baggins!" Thorin screamed from the other end of the table. "No, you won't!" Bilbo sang as Thorin's spoonful of eggs and bacon bounced off Bilbo's improvised shield (a colander). The match finally ended when Thorin dove underneath the table and upended it, the candlesticks and silverware falling to the floor with loud crashes.

"Oops," he muttered.

Bilbo smiled, amused at how adorable Thorin sounded and looked, what with his fur all mussed-up and his eyes alight with adrenaline. "What on earth am I going to do with you, Thorin Oakenshield?" he muttered, fondly but sternly. Blood rushed to their cheeks the minute the words were out of Bilbo's mouth. The both of them tried to look somewhere else, but set about to tidying the dining room up, anyway.

With the both of them working together, the room was completely tidy in minutes, save for the dirty splotches and ugly stains on the room's newly-changed carpet, which just so happened to be in a lovely peach color.

"Oh, Dori's going to have a fit," Bilbo hissed as Thorin and he carried the dishes, broken and unbroken, to the kitchen for sorting out and washing. "I'll take care of it," Thorin mumbled, winking playfully at Bilbo.

The wave of nostalgia that swept over Bilbo the minute he saw the kitchen sink was amazing. To think that just a few weeks ago, he and Thorin had been standing _right there_, just an inch away from the other's lips. Almost as if his hand had a mind of it's own, it flew to his lips, caressing the bottom part, remembering the feel of fur against soft flesh.

"Bilbo? You alright?" Thorin asked, nudging Bilbo's shoulder softly.

"Huh?"

Thorin rolled his eyes.

"You were staring off into space. And usually, you do that whenever you're thinking about something. What is it?"

Bilbo set the plates down on the counter, ran his fingers through his curls, and hopped up on the sink before he answered.

"Well...it's just...d'you remember?"

"Remember wha-_Oh! _Yes, yes. I do. Very much."

An awkward silence settled over the kitchen. Bilbo and Thorin bit their lips simultaneously, once more thinking about the wonderful evening they'd almost shared with each other, before Fili and Kili had to go and ruin it.

"Thorin?"

"Hmmm?"

"You know, I might sound crazy for saying this, but...I'm really glad I took Frodo's place. I _really _am."

For the first time in minutes, Thorin stared at Bilbo, gray-blue boring into green, shocked to see that Bilbo was already looking at him. Before either was aware of what they were doing, Thorin leaned in, and Bilbo merely closed the gap between them. Like before, their lips were but an inch apart, when the kitchen door burst open, two sweaty-faced princes barging into the room like they owned it.

"Uncle? Are you in here? Your surprise for Bilbo's ready!"

Bilbo thanked his rarely-lucky stars that the sink was hidden behind a wall. Otherwise, the situation would've been much more awkward than it already was.

"What? Oh, yes! Yes! We were just finishing up with the plates. We'll be with you in a moment," Thorin called back.

"Alright, then," Fili hollered.

His voice was way too loud for the echo-y kitchen, but it suited the scene perfectly: it filled the awkward gaps in the picture that Bilbo was currently in.

"Surprise?" he asked, once he heard the kitchen doors swing shut.

Thorin turned back to him with the ghost of a smile on his face.

"You'll see."

He held out his paw, retracting his claws so as not to injure Bilbo. Without hesitation, Bilbo took it and linked his fingers with Thorin's, ignoring the warm feeling in his stomach and the fact that with Thorin's hand in his, he felt like he could fly to the moon.

* * *

Frodo was awakened by the sound of fists thumping on wood.

He stumbled out of bed, shook his disheveled curls into the neatest position possible, and practically ran to the door, not even daring himself to hope that it was his dear Uncle, returned to him at last.

Instead, he got an unwelcome view of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' face, instead, her haughty expression turning Frodo's morning, if it was even possible, much more dourer.

"Here," she said, handing him a filled-to-the-brim wicker basket. Frodo took it gingerly and peeked underneath the lid. There were all sorts of food inside it, and tempting though it was, he wasn't just going to accept all of the free food without any explanation as to _why _she was giving it to him.

"What do you want?" he asked, not even bothering to be polite. This was the woman who humiliated him at family reunions and get-togethers for eight years, after all. He didn't owe her anything.

Lobelia's steely blue eyes flashed, and Frodo recoiled, scared that she would finally strike him across the face.

"Nothing. Just looking out for you, my dear nephew."

She reached out and took one of Frodo's cheeks, pinching it raw. He slapped her hand away, and it took every ounce of willpower in his body not to slap her smartly across the face, too.

"I don't need it," he said, all but thrusting the basket back into her hands. "I've got enough food here until..."

_Until Uncle Bilbo returns._

The words hung in the air, though Lobelia seemed to slow to keep up with Frodo's train of thought.

"Nonsense. You take it."

Frodo snorted.

"Please. If I knew any better, the jam's probably maggot-infested and the carrot cake's been expired for at least three days now," he said defiantly. He saw Lobelia falter slightly, and he knew at once that he was right. The little fact made him stand just a little bit straighter.

"Clever, little nephew. But you do know that the food you have in there," she nudged her nose in the pantry's direction, "won't last forever. Bilbo's too busy prancing around with the Elves in the Forest to even think of you, my sweet. Soon enough, he won't even remember or care about you. Though I doubt he even did in the first place, what with him going batty even in his younger years, the old twat."

_That_ was the final straw for the teen.

With his fists clenched, Frodo reached into the basket, pulled out the carrot cake, and stuffed it straightly into Lobelia's mouth. She staggered backwards, caught off-guards. To Frodo's glee, she tripped over the front step and rolled right down to the bottom, the basket's contents tipping all over her and her cotton skirts.

"And don't come back!" he shouted, loud enough to attract the Gaffer's, Sam's father, attention. Frodo didn't miss the thumbs-up he flashed the thirteen-year-old, though.

He shut the door behind him, locked it, and then slumped against it. Frodo wiped the sweat on his brow off his forehead.

That was way too close.

Soon enough, Lobelia wouldn't take no for an answer, and she would just barge into Bag End and take over everything that his Uncle Bilbo had worked so hard for in the past few years.

"I've got to find him, help or no help," Frodo muttered, the cogs and gears in his brain whirring rapidly.

He thought quietly for a minute, then he smiled grimly.

Frodo had a plan. A good (and slightly stupid) one, at that.

Oh, well. At least he would have his Uncle Bilbo back within a few days if everything went according to plan.

_If._

"Shit," he mumbled.

* * *

Erebor Castle's library was filled from floor to ceiling with every title, topic, and genre possible, as Bilbo soon found out.

His eyes grew as large as saucers when Thorin's paws dropped away from where they had been covering his line of view. Bilbo slightly inclined his head to the side. Thorin could see the dazed smile on his face and the way his eyes had suddenly glazed over.

"So...do you like it?"

Bilbo found his voice at last.

"But, what is it for?"

Thorin shrugged.

"Consider it an early Christmas present from-_OOOF_!"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

For Bilbo had suddenly pounced on Thorin and wrapped his skinny, but strong arms around the King's neck, burying his nose in the crook of Thorin's shoulder, enjoying the heady, but sweet scent of fur and cinnamon mixed together. After a moment's hesitation, Thorin hugged him back, his nose deep in Bilbo's curls.

"You're welcome. And I'm glad you like it."

They stood there for a while, merely hugging each other, Thorin supporting most of Bilbo's weight while the other repeatedly snuffled into Thorin's soft fur. Finally, they broke apart, Thorin looking a bit dazed as well. He brushed Bilbo's hair out of his eyes, and stroked Bilbo's cheek gently.

"I'll leave you to your reading, then?"

"That would be lovely."

* * *

**A/N: **Oh, my gosh, you guys! I am _so_ sorry for breaking my promise and _not _updating on Fridays and Saturdays anymore like I said I would. Please, please, please try to bear with me and know that it _literally _kills me not to write about our lovely OTP (or brOTP) as much as I would like (I personally blame the blatant lack of freaking Wi-Fi on top of Mount Makiling (**A/N: **It's in the Philippines!) where my school is located, but then again, who's counting?). Add that to the fact that our Social Studies, Music Theory, Science, and Math teachers seem hellbent on giving us so much homework that I don't even have the energy to go on **tumblr **anymore (Which is sad, indeed).

A sign of just how stupidly tired I've been these past few weeks.

Oh, well. At least I got all of that out, and now you know why I've been practically AWOL on here (And_ no,_ mysterious anon reviewer who sent me a **PM**, I am _not _dead, nor am I dying. I am fit as a fiddle...just majorly stressed...and retarded).

Sighs.

Also, please know that reviews give me much more mojo juice to write new chapters, since most of you guys really do say the sweetest things **:)** Just putting that teensy-weensy fact out there.

Hugs and Kisses!


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